


The Other Side

by Cacilie_Blaas, viajeramyra



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Homophobic Language, Homophobic family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied / Referenced Child Neglect and Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, mention of blood and injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cacilie_Blaas/pseuds/Cacilie_Blaas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/pseuds/viajeramyra
Summary: Sergio —El Profesor— had planned countermeasures for almost anything that could go wrong in his perfectly timed plan. But like most carefully conceived things in life, it didn’t take much more than a little speck of dust, a tiny grain of sand, for the perfect machinery to derail. Because ‘almost’ didn’t include Martín Berrote infiltrating the Mint weeks before the beginning of the heist, furious and determined. ‘Almost’ couldn’t care less about devotion. 'Almost’ never planned for Andrés, and the rippled effect of years of denied love.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 166
Kudos: 278





	1. 1 Day to Heist D-Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and thank you for coming to read our 'little' fic!
> 
> It had been a labor of love working on it (two months coming up with a good alternative plot and a month writing) and we hope TOS will be as special to you as it is to us. We love the home we’ve made in Berlermo fandom, and couldn't wait to share this project with you. 
> 
> Concerning triggers: we will add tags as the story unfold and will always warn of individual triggers before any chapter that might need it.
> 
> So kick back, and be prepared to forget what happened in canon!
> 
> Cassy (Andrés) & Myra (Martín)

_ Truly_, Andrés thought as he observed what was, for lack of a better name, a party, _the past five months had been entertaining_. It had been a much needed reminder that life was made of stronger, sharper feelings than the dull monotony that had settled over his mind when he left Italy. Here, he reclaimed the eagerness that came with planning a new heist, the anticipation of the chase, the thrill of caring for something greater than himself. Against his best judgement, he had been forced to remember there was more to him than the deep seated anger that thrummed in his veins and the disconcerting nostalgia of what could have been. No, he hadn’t expected to find a strange sort of family in an abandoned hunting estate in the countryside of Toledo, but as he had come to learn, it sometimes took the end of an era to understand exactly what you were about to lose. 

The long table that usually hosted their outdoor planning sessions had been moved to sit proudly among the trees and had been redecorated for the occasion. Light garlands, probably more appreciated around Christmas time, hung above it as if graced by divine intervention. Its bright and ugly colours were flickering happily in the dark, along the small candles Oslo and Helsinki were busy blowing out. They spoke softly in their native language while Tokio and Moscú finished clearing the table. Río was laughing loudly with Denver, both men trying to come up with a selection of music for the rest of the night. Well, ‘music’ maybe wasn’t the description Andrés would make of the noise coming from the music speakers, making him scrunch his nose in distaste. He wished he could share his annoyance with his brother but the man had left after they finished eating, missing the round of cards they indulged in.

“And where did the brain behind this delightful little get-together disappear?” Andrés asked, ostentatiously doing nothing to help around. 

“ _El Profesor_ is busy, Berlín, or he would be here with us,” said Tokio, rolling her eyes at him. “And stop being so snobby about tonight, you don’t know how to have fun, we know. No need to remind us.” 

She looked a bit uncertain when she went to clear the plate in front of him but she took it into her hands even though it was still filled with food. He took a breath, choosing not to antagonise her now, instead stretching his lips into a thin sort of smile. 

“Because our dear leader is so much better at having fun, isn’t he? Well I suppose I can find a way to enjoy the end of the festivities,” he said as he made his wine swirl into its glass.

Tokio shrugged, uninterested, and ended up walking up to Río, a flirty smile firmly in place. Andrés knew he wouldn’t sleep a lot if these two decided to enjoy their clandestine affair tonight but instead of worrying about it, he finished his drink of the _Valpolicella_ he took with him from Italy. He didn’t have to wait long for ‘ _El Profesor_ ’ to resurface, Río’s happy waves betraying the man’s return. Andrés twisted in his chair and was greeted by the view of the mastermind of this heist awkwardly waving back near the entrance of the god-awful-looking place he chose as a base of operation. 

With the cloudy grey sky and the moon playing hide and seek, the house seemed taken straight from a novel and Andrés could only smile at how fitting it was for his younger brother. Sergio had always loved losing himself in books and stories after all. He himself had spent more hours than he could count creating vivid universes and narrating clever characters for Sergio’s benefices when he was too tired to focus on the words of his favourite books. And like most of the heroes he loved as a child, his profesor persona was a bit presumptuous, though Andrés had to admit Sergio wore it well as he found himself teaching one long and very convoluted plan to a band of mismatched thieves.

He walked toward the table and stopped when they were close enough to talk, his eyes drawn to Nairobi teasing Oslo with what looked like a barbecue skewer. 

“Is everything alright?” Sergio asked.

Andrés wondered why he agreed to the party — he didn’t think for a minute it had been his brother's idea after all— but maybe it was for the best. Tomorrow, they would enter the Royal Mint of Spain and the friendly days they had shared would fade against the harsh reality of a heist of drastic proportions. He hoped the whole damn house of cards wouldn’t come down on them but he knew better than to hope for a smooth operation.

“Peachy. If the Christmas lights don’t burn down the whole forest, we might even survive the night. I’m not certain of the quality of the food we ate, though. And,” he said with a flourish of his hand in Nairobi’s direction, “Oslo isn’t what I would call appetizing for a desert.”

Sergio huffed, unwilling to break character but a little bit amused despite himself. It made Andrés smile more sincerely than he should have in return, though he couldn’t regret it. His little brother didn’t laugh or even smile enough, all of Earth misery seemingly delicately balanced on his shoulders every time he looked at him. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Sergio corrected, his eyes going over every one of their colleagues before coming back to him, a silent question hidden between his words. 

The truth was, Andrés hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with the choices his brother had made regarding the other members of their team. Now though, he had to admit they did work well together.

Moscú was unrefined but hard working, always attentive when you talked and someone Andrés felt he didn’t have to worry about much. Yes, the man did bring family into it and Denver’s laugh was as grating as the stuttering of a mad bird, but it would be hypocrite to throw the first rock when it came to their relationship; after all, Andrés’ loyalties lied at Sergio’s feet, first and furthermore. He simply had to take into account the weakness their filiation could become under pressure when the time would come. Still, he trusted them more than he did Tokio and her little fling with Río next door— she was too volatile while he was too innocent for something as dangerous as what they were about to start. If he were someone prone to honesty Andrés would have said their personal expert in forgery, despite being loud and crass, was the one capable element of their group. Oslo and Helsinki were trustworthy soldiers but Nairobi was instrumental if they wanted to succeed. Besides, he always had a soft spot for talented women and she wasn’t an exception to the rule. 

Of course he knew that a decade of planning meant nothing faced with unreliable elements but, all in all, Sergio did well. 

“It will do,” Andrés said after a short moment of contemplation. “You worked hard, everything will fall into place.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Sergio pushed his glasses up his nose when Moscú came back from the house to sit loudly near Andrés, grabbing a pitcher of sweeter wine that survived dinner. “Come up when you’re done here, Berlín, we need to go over last minute details.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he sarcastically answered, knitted brows the only sign of worry he allowed himself to display. 

“Did I scare him off?” Moscú laughed as Sergio ran back to the mansion and Andrés shrugged. The man yawned ostentatiously, his jaw ready to drop, and Andrés refrained from commenting on the rules of politeness in society. Instead he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep breath, letting the smoke fill up his lungs. It had a very distinct herbal taste, the touch of clove almost stronger than the tobacco itself. He breathed out slowly, and Moscú asked “Can I steal one?”

Silently, he reached into his inner pocket and fished out the silver cigarette case. He opened it and offered one along with his engraved lighter zipper. 

“Gracias.”

They smoked in a comfortable silence, though Andrés played with his cig more than he smoked it. He let his head fall back as he breathed out the grey smoke and watched it curl into the air, weightless and free. He was observing the glowing embers at the end of Moscú’s cigarette smoulder brighter when the man started coughing heavily. Nairobi’s hand appeared out of nowhere to slap the cigarette out of the older man’s grip, cursing and stomping on it so it wouldn’t burn the grass where it fell. 

“Why are you smoking? You know it’s bad for your lungs!” Nairobi scowled Moscú before planting her hands on her hips, a caricature of an enraged woman. She ignored the older man’s laugh at her extreme reaction, a kind and rumbling noise that shook his entire frame and provoked another coughing fit. Instead, Nairobi’s wrath found in him her next target as he kept smoking lazily, going as far as to blow smoke in her general direction just to be annoying. “Why are you giving him that shit Berlín!?”

“Everybody is allowed to choose how to die,” Andrés dismissed.

“Well, you can choose to die of a stupid cancer if you want, but don’t take anyone else with you, _idiota_!”

The words stung like a needle busting his bubble of contentment. He didn’t flinch but it was a near thing, and only his shaking fingers when he flicked the end of the fag could have betrayed how deep her innocent observation cut. He tried to take another smoke but his throat convulsed and a wave of nausea hit him. He fed the cigarette to the ashtray and wished he could crush the miserable feeling upsetting him as easily.

“Ah, you shouldn’t worry about me, you know I’m done for already,” the older man joked serenely. “Black lung can’t get worse with something this light. But you can bet I’m going to enjoy the years I have left swimming in all the money we’ll get if the plan works.” 

A flicker of sadness passed through her face but she didn’t dwell on it, preferring to smile and gloss over the mention of death, like most people did.

“ _When_ it works Moscú!  _When_!”

“ _When_ , you’re right,” Moscú smiled kindly at her. “When we’re out, I’m going to travel with my son. I don’t know where we’ll go but I’ll show him everything I wished I could have given him when he was little. And that’s a lot, you can trust me! I always dream big.” 

“That’s a great gift for Denver,” Andrés said, picking at his manicured nails, “wasting away, waiting for death, in front of his eyes.” 

The silence that followed didn’t last long, not with how outraged Nairobi was.

“Are you fucking _sick_? I know you love being an asshole but this is a step too far.”

“I am simply saying I would prefer to leave with a _bang_.”

“Well, take a fucking gun and get on with it,” Nairobi mimicked pointing a gun at her temple before loudly saying, “ _Bang_!” Her frown deepened when she realised his face didn’t convey any emotion at all. “ _Mierda_ Berlín, don’t say fucking depressing shit like this, tonight of all nights! _Urgh_ , I need a drink.”

She reached for the glass he didn’t finish, stealing the last of his red wine and earning herself an irritated look. Moscú simply arched his eyebrows meaningfully in his direction.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pessimist?”

Curving lips and daring blue eyes flashed in Andrés’ mind and it felt like falling, the stormy wind rustling in his ears and carrying the whisper of a memory that almost shattered him. The air wailed and he could almost hear _his_ voice accusing him, could almost feel _his_ fingertips grazing ever so lightly against his face, and Andrés’ hands twitched against the vertigo and the wet smell of petrichor and, and— _and_ , in a blink, it was something of the past again. 

Questions written all over her face, Nairobi called his name. He chanced a look toward Moscú but the man’s eyes flickered with unwelcomed fatherly concern, until Andrés remembered they had asked him something.

“Someone, yes.” 

He stood up then, ignoring the looks of concern his abrupt and seemingly excessive reaction provoked in his companions almost as well as he dismissed the knot inside his stomach, wounded tighter and tighter with each hasty step Andrés took away from _his_ ghost. 

Instead, he went looking for Sergio.

He stepped inside the mansion as his unease grew, frantically climbing to the top of the stairs until he saw the door leading to the planning room gaping open and swinging slightly on its hinges— an unspoken invitation. He let himself in and didn’t have to scan the room long to find Sergio: cast in shadows and flickers of light due to the fire he was staring into, hunched under the weight of every life depending on him, his brother cut a lonesome figure. Andrés sagged lazily against the door to close it and he smirked when the noise made Sergio jump and turn toward him, a scowl on his face at having been scared so easily.

“You took longer than I thought you would,” Sergio remarked, and Andrés knew he would probably have dismissed the question if the smell of nicotine was not ready to betray his earlier activity the moment he stepped closer to his brother. 

“I felt like having a smoke.”

“You _know_ it’s bad for you.”

“Ah— a lot of things are bad for me, yet, here I am, still kicking.” He said it with an overabundance of confidence, like they both didn’t know how doomed he was, like his belief could rewrite the rules and fabric of the universe as well as a kid’s imagination would. It had allowed them to survive time and time again as children, stories and games of make believe deepening their bond when no one else was left to care for them— it was the only thing Andrés had now. Sergio stayed silent, as he always did when talk of death came between them, and Andrés pushed himself from the door to tour the room, observing the scene. 

The walls were covered with the names and faces of all those likely to be involved in the investigation that would try to take them down. _Little lamb_ , as they named her, was a prominent figure in the patchwork of information they would leave to the police, a trap meant to make the pigs lose time in case they ever found their trail. He knew most of these people already, studied their files for weeks, preparing himself for the job ahead— all but one face. Raquel Murillo hadn’t been his priority but his brother’s, robbing Andrés of the opportunity to admire her pretty but tired eyes, pinned to the wall along her daughter in wait for someone to discover their hideout. 

When he reached his brother near the fireplace, Andrés asked, “Is it done?” 

“Everything is in place, as you can see.” Sergio stopped committing the old photos in his hands to memory long enough to glance at him. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“Yes, it was delightful to have fun at everyone’s else expense.” 

“Drop the act, I saw you with everyone, it was— good. You’ve grown fond of them.”

The worst part was that Sergio was right, in a way. Most of them had been able to bond, as tonight's little improvised party had proven. They cared about each other, in their own particular ways. Gentle teasing, laughs and companionship were things neither he nor Sergio had expected but it happened all the same as they played students. The plan would come first, of that Andrés was certain, but spending so much time in close quarters meant a lot slipped through the cracks of anonymity. Even he had come to share more than he was willing to give from time to time. He almost talked about  _ him _ a few times and he should count himself lucky something or someone always cut him off before he could feel the sting of shame that came with being weak, openly, in front of anyone. 

No, instead he clutched at his most precious weapons. 

Dignity. 

Composure. 

Control. 

“They’re my little soldiers, nothing else,” Andrés said coldly. “You were clear about that. ”

He might have allowed himself to enjoy some of the conversations he shared with them the past few months, but no one could pretend to be knocking on the doors to his secrets. No, nothing of himself escaped the barriers he built between him and the rest of the universe, which was probably why Andrés felt like he had just shared the Last Supper before his own crucifixion. Standing apart from the group all night, silently watching everyone enjoy food, wine and laughter with only a few quips from his part when it was needed— he knew that hidden behind his eccentricities no one would take a second glance at his unusual quietness. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” A bony shoulder knocked against his, warm from spending too much time in front of the fireplace. “Are you… alright?” 

Not Sergio, though. Sergio always looked behind his masks. His worried gaze had been on him all night, piercing through his carefully crafted persona until they finally found themselves alone to talk, ready to offer careful words of concern despite his little brother's obvious apprehension. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Andrés deflected with a smirk, and Sergio simply sighed, eyes turning back to the old and grainy paper between his hands. 

“You’re right, tomorrow, personal feelings won’t matter.”

Andrés tried to stop Sergio from burning the only memories left of the man that sent them on their current path—Sergio’s dad and Andrés’ stepfather and old mentor—but his words didn’t bear much weight against the safety of everyone. He watched the flames devouring the familiar faces of who he called family for a time, incapable of feeling anything else than a distant sort of melancholy. He didn’t have to fight long against it and soon his focus was on the large cluttered table throning in the center of the room.

Dirty plates, cutlery, leftover food and opened bottles of wine were all gifts for the police to analyse, another complex lure they’d have to research lest they missed some vital cue to catch them. This wishful thinking on their part had Andrés smiling in anticipation. 

He knew Sergio was done struggling with memories of their childhood when he sat at the head of the table and accepted the wine Andrés just poured for him. 

“It all starts tomorrow.” Silence stretched between them as Sergio dwelled on everything left unsaid between them. “ _Sergio_.” Soon, Andrés would not be allowed the luxury of talking to his brother as candidly and words started pressing against his lips in haste. “Promise me something. If things get ugly… you’ll escape. Don’t wait for us in the hangar.”

“Everything will be fine,” answered Sergio, stubbornness masquerading for confidence.

“You know as well as I do that it could all go wrong. I’m not going unless you promise me that if all hell breaks loose, you won’t let them catch you.”

“I’m not promising you that.”

Andrés huffed out a breath in response and it would have been amused if their conversation wasn’t so serious. Instead, he threatened Sergio and his plan, knowing it would force his brother’s hand. “Either you promise me right now, or you’ll be left with no captain. You know me well.” The wine didn’t have any taste, and he wondered if it was due to the mediocre quality or if his medication was to blame.

“Nothing will go wrong Andrés. We’re the resistance, remember?”

He’d missed it, his real name coming from his little brother, but he could have done without the implication of his words. Andrés didn’t answer, afraid his voice would start to shake and when Sergio started singing _,_ he stayed silent, remembering. They had been too young to understand the meaning of the lyrics when they first heard _Bella Ciao_ ; it had been their _abuelo_ , mourning the death of his only daughter—of their _mum_ —that had started singing then. Andrés had never understood how these lyrics became a symbol of hope for Sergio when, like the song itself, it was only tainted by death’s embrace for Andrés, and the emptiness that came with the loss of their mother. 

He didn’t let him go through the first verse alone, even when Sergio’s voice died down and Andrés murmured “ _ché mi sento di morir_ ” for him. The wounded look was quickly hidden but Andrés still felt guilt throttle him for ruining what should have been Sergio’s grand triomphe. He wished guilt was enough to shake the numbness that had clung to him for months now, but in the end he was unwilling to look for its origin—not when they could sing together like they used to do as children. 

Andrés said his goodbye, then.

“ _E se muoio da partigiano_

_ Tu mi devi seppellir _ ”

_ And if I die as a partisan _

_ You must bury me _

It was better to say it that way, through song and touch. Talking had always been hard despite their closeness, something they avoided more and more in recent months and that Andrés didn’t fight now—not when he could simply embrace his little brother and show him his love as a substitute. It was a comforting gesture he didn’t have the chance to offer in a very long time, at least since Sergio grew out of his scrawny looks and bout of childhood nightmares. He heard more than he saw the tears overwhelming Sergio and he ignored them as he did the one he felt forming, stroking his brother’s hair softly instead. There was no turning back and he had made peace with his situation, even if Sergio hadn’t and probably never would. 

They never had been great with separations, he supposed, the both of them, and he worried about leaving his younger brother behind: where Andrés had decided early in life to enjoy every one of his relationships like it was his last, Sergio had become more closed off with each passing year. Knowledge and careful calculations were his shield like Andrés’ never-ending masks were his own, but here, there were no lies between them.

When shaky fingers gripped at the back of his vest, refusing to let go, Andrés knew he had to retreat. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ ; not here, not when he couldn’t afford to slip, not when he was to act as the ‘master of ceremony’ in their little plan. 

“You need to sleep,” Andrés announced and Sergio’s wet chuckle and unhappy “Goodnight” followed him to his room.

Finally alone, Andrés softly closed the door behind him, the key turning with a creaky sound that betrayed how old the ruined mansion actually was. Around him, the wallpaper, eaten away by the damp, looked sad and dreary, and large strips of paper were coming off the wall pitifully. The thin green carpet didn’t stop the sound of his shoes hitting the wood underneath, nor did it stop the murmurs coming from the rest of the house. Lights flickered in the almost darkness, making his shadow waver and dance disturbingly and, like a deranged ghost above him, the roof beams creaked and whispered angrily with each gust of wind. 

Andrés hovered uncertainty, feeling weirdly out of place in his own bedroom. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishing: a tall, dark-wooden wardrobe with fractured mirrors on the doors, an old crumbling sofa that could swallow you up in its cushions if you made the mistake to sit down, a dusty chandelier and its unsteady lights. He ran one hand over the carving on the front of his narrow bed that looked like climbing ivy before he started shedding his clothes like one would shed an armor. Deft fingers unknotted his dark blue tie, meticulously smoothing out the fabric and folding it, then unbuttoning the waistcoat he wore. Both pieces of clothing were put away in a plain bag that he would take with him tomorrow morning, closely followed by his most precious pair of cufflinks, hidden away in a small cloth pouch. 

He was carefully undoing the buttons of the shirt he wore at dinner when the harmonic sound of the rain starting to splatter against the french windows made him forget his task and walk instead to admire the weather. The dark, heavy clouds amassing in the horizon were not uncommon at this time of the year and the day had been hot enough to explain this inky and vengeful sky that suited his mood perfectly. Something undefinable inside him moved and before he realized what he was doing, the high windows were thrown open and he stepped outside. 

Immediately, water soaked him. 

Unbothered, Andrés closed his eyes and angled his face toward the clouds, arms opened as if accepting of the sky benediction. Rain was supposed to clean the soul after all, and God only knew how much he needed it. Whatever was bound to happen in the Mint, he had to leave his past behind just as much as Sergio did and with cold droplets trickling down his face, Andrés almost believed it was possible. He could practically taste the electric tang of the lightning coursing through the sky and Andrés smiled because _this_ was right, _this_ was what he had been feeling these past few months, charged with an energy he was desperate to release.

It had been building since _that day_ in Firenze.

Andrés had left the monastery in a hurry, followed closely by the rain. He had been running away from the unsteady and bitter feeling coiling in his ribcage, a demanding burning grief he had tried to ignore as he drove his car to the city. A small part of him had wanted to turn back, wanted to believe his health wouldn’t become a burden to those around him, that staying would be worth it. But Andrés knew it was just a fantasy. He knew, intimately, how someone else’s pain hurt, how excruciating it was to see someone you love wither away until they were only a shadow of themselves, how bitter your tears were when you realized it was just a promise of worse to come. He chose to erase _their_ last moment together instead, keeping it locked into his unyielding mind, far away from his treacherous heart. It was only the first crushing goodbye he had to make before he would leave them all behind, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t go back now. It was over. 

So he drove away from _him_ , leaving behind the pleas and tears that knotted his throat so tightly it was difficult to breath. He knew he didn’t deserve to feel this pain— not when he was the only one that should be blamed. Even today, he could barely remember how he finally found the restaurant where Tatiana had been waiting for him, unsurprised by his unusual tardiness. What he did remember was what she told him when he sat down, smiling prettily between two sips of champagne. 

“I’ve never seen you so shaken.” 

He remembered how beautiful she was under the soft candlelight, how sharp her bright eyes were, how her pleased smile grew at his sight, how her wit and intelligence sparkled. He didn’t marry a fool and he should have feared her smirk, impish and all-too-knowing, but he couldn’t have guessed how cutting her next words would be. “Did you two finally kiss?” 

She said it so simply, like it was evidence, like it was the only thing that could break him and turn him into the new man she saw standing before her. He wanted to protest but he wouldn’t be caught lying to her. 

“As cliché as it sounds Tatiana, it’s not what you thi—” he began, explanations spilling out, but the words died a quick death on his lips when she laughed at him, more amused than upset. 

“That was your first time, right?” Her mischievous eyes bore into him, trying to decrypt his heart and he feared she could see past the cracks of his calm façade. His shoulders hunched closer together in self defence when her smile turned teasing. “That’s the most surprising part. Or maybe not—kissing me or Sergio was only ever a joke for _him_. You, by contrast…”

“Why aren’t you upset?”

“You would prefer I played the weeping wife, so blinded by her love for her dear husband that she refused to see what was written for the world to see?” she cajoled, playing the part before breaking character to finish her glass and chide him. “ _Per favore_ , _tesoro_. You wouldn’t love me—and even less respect me.”

“I _do_!” he vowed because he did. She was life personified, always throwing herself into things with unrepentant joy, a perfect match to his desperate love for life. He had cherished her the moment he met her and every heist planned with her at  _ their  _ side had been a pleasure, every morning shared _together_ — 

Her playfulness melted at his words. “I know you do,” she said, radiating softness. “As I always knew I wasn’t alone in your heart.” 

Brilliant, beautiful, benevolent Tatiana, who had always known the limits and borders of the love Andrés had for her, even though he didn’t tell her. Nevertheless, she was walking a dangerous road and Andrés had no intention of following her down that path. He grabbed the homemade _grissini_ the restaurant had left on the table as an antipasto, biting into one to distract his starving stomach. 

“It’s true you never felt threatened by how much I care for Sergio.”

“Andrés…” 

“He called me, by the way,” he added quickly, eager to change the subject. He hadn’t meant to tell her before dinner even started but it was the only way out he found, and somehow, it felt like life was a twisted labyrinth, always refusing him the options he truly wanted. He never had been allowed to make decisions that mattered, even less since he learnt that every one of his choice could only have one outcome.

“You know very well I’m talking about M—”

“The Mint heist, yes,” he interrupted, before signaling the waiter to come by their table. Tatiana sat back in her chair and folded her arms in front of her before her manners came back and instead took a sip of her drink, feigning nonchalance as he asked for the wine selection. Alone again after ordering a bottle of _Chianti Classico_ , he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You— _what_.” He and Tatiana stared at each other for as long as it took her to breathe deeply in an attempt to calm herself. “What do you mean ‘you’re leaving tomorrow’?!”

“I know it seems rushed but my brother has been working on this for so long, waiting for the right opportunity and every ‘guest’ will attend the ‘party’ in about five months,” he explained slowly. There was an uncomfortable pause. “It can’t wait,” he said then.

A long silence followed, interrupted only by the waiter coming back to present the wine. Andrés barely acknowledged his presence, nodding absently in his direction after tasting the strong and fruity beverage. It rasped his tongue, more bitter than he remembered though maybe it was due to the disapproving look Tatiana was giving him.

“I didn’t think I married a coward, but apparently I was mistaken,” she said, voice carefully low to cushion the sharpness of her words, but little did she know how deep they would cut. White hot anger burst like a supernova behind his sternum, his whole chest going tight. He couldn’t tell if it came from hearing _those_ words again, or if it was because she was insulting him for something he had no control over but the result was the same.

“I am _not_ a coward,” he hissed. 

“You’re running away! Whatever happened tonight—”

“It was decided _before_ we kissed—”

“ _Oh_ ,” she drawled, eyeing him critically. “That’s why you let your guard down—you don’t plan on coming back to us.”

She was right—more than she thought, certainly. He almost told her, there and then, what he had planned and stopping himself was made more difficult by how emotionally drained he already was. Tatiana shouldn’t worry about him though, it was the whole point of all of this: he would not be _their_ problem in Spain. 

“Every plan has its share of risk, you know that as well as I do.”

She dipped her head and, hidden behind her strawberry hair, he could only hope fervently she wasn’t concealing tears. Instead, a hard mournful laugh pierced through him. “That’s your answer?” she asked, her eyes meeting his again, dry but hurt anyway. It felt like being right at the edge of a precipice, his grip slipping, but the fight left him a long time ago and there was no turning back.

“There isn’t anything else to discuss,” he snapped, dismissive and cold. “I’m going.”

She was quiet for a moment, reflecting on his words. She held her face completely still, a mystery even to him, and he had to gather the fragment of his heart breaking anew when he understood what it meant. But it was fine, familiar. He had handled worse before coming to see her—he could go through it again.

“I see,” Tatiana said, holding up her hand, expecting a protest from him that wouldn’t come. She, _too_ , deserved more than he had left to offer after all. And there was something truly exhilarating and depressing in being right, because the next thing she did was take her wedding ring off and put it on the table between them. “I’ll send you the divorce papers.”

“You don’t—” Andrés began a bit harshly, but he paused, folding his hands over his heart and collapsing softly against the back of his chair. He had hoped they would stay married until the end, to have that comfort once his final moment finally came, if nothing else. When he spoke again, it was softer, closer to the loving man he tried to be for her. “You don’t need to leave now, you know. We don’t have to end things this way Tatiana.”

She stood up and shimmered into her trench coat, still a bit damp from the storm raging outside. “Oh, Andrés,” she sighed and brushed his hair back, just enough to leave a feather-light kiss against his forehead. “I’m too young to be a widower.”

The sound of her heels against the floor had been as loud as a crack of thunder and when another, real this time, struck and deafened him, Andrés startled back to the present. 

He knew he should go back inside but here, battered by the elements, it seemed like every atom of his body was part of the fabric of an universe gone mad—like his own had. And it had been a long time—a sad, empty, crippling time—since he had felt like he was where he was meant to be. Sometimes, he even wished he could go back in time and stop himself from letting _this_ happen, so he would never know what it felt like to kiss _those_ lips. Never know how it felt to feel his heart so full, only to choke on the sensation of loss mere minutes, weeks, _months_ later. 

Drenched, he breathed deeply a couple more times, allowing the smell of ozone to fill his nostrils and will his brain into silence. 

At least, the ferocious storm matched the one in his heart. It was, after all, his last night on Earth. Tomorrow, he would be leading his team toward Purgatory, his last stop before his final destination. It was strangely poetic and Andrés simply laughed raucously under the rain, uncaring of the damp hair sticking down his face, of the cold invading him and taking roots in his heart. He would write the end of his story with the ink needed to print the money stolen during the biggest heist ever attempted. 

He couldn’t wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrés is ready to get into the Mint, but are you ready for one Martín Berrote next chapter?
> 
> As always, you can find us screaming about TOS and our other fics on twitter: @Cacilie_Blaas @berlermo


	2. 3 Months to Heist D-Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for your kind words and reviews and kudos. 
> 
> Before we get started: Jirair is Bogotá, Demir is Marseille, we love and adore them and promise to give more story time in future fics to our boys. Honestly, I am so weak for Jirair and Demir now, I have so much I want to use them for. So maybe they’ll make their way into flashbacks. *winks*
> 
> Anyway, it is time for a little rewind to see how our darling Martín gets inside the Mint. 
> 
> \- Myra

The blinding overhead blue light made him lean across the long bench, throwing his face directly into the hard foam of the seat. Anything was better than trying to participate in the events around him, a mix of people ordering some light food or drinks, others dancing to what was barely passable as pounding, electric music. Fingers folded down parts of his ears, trying again to block out everything around him. He’d fought to stay in his room the way he had for two weeks now, but Jirair wasn’t having any of his self-pity anymore. He’d thrown an arrangement of clothes on the bed and told him he had twenty minutes before they would be leaving. Glancing down at the contrasting patterns, Martín knew a blind man would have done better. He’d been shot down with a look when he tried to argue back, and reluctantly thrown on the black pants. Now, here he was a few hours into their evening, just as miserable as he had been back at the monastery but missing the comfort of his softer bed and the pitch black he lost himself in. He knew better but found himself extending his legs across the bench all the same, arms folded under his head as he let out a loud groan.    
  
“Can I leave yet?” He grumbled, squinting his eyes trying yet again to block out the bright lights, which seemed to be turning to strobes now. He scrunched his nose as a plate was carried a few feet away from his head, stomach rumbling as he could almost taste the mix of spices he smelled. It only served to make him press his head further into the bench, refusing to give into breaking his fast. He’d eat again at some point, but for now the milk and occasional bites of stale bread were enough for him.

  
He waited for the answer from his friend, sitting tall across the table from him, drink in hand. He couldn’t feel the weight of stoic eyes watching him like he did when Jirair first arrived to check in on him, but it wasn’t surprising. There were clearly defined limitations in the way his friend was capable of expressing his concern, and he’d learned them all very well throughout the years. Normally, he was far more appreciative of the _chin up and deal with it_ approach, but nothing before had ever wounded him so deeply to his core. There was nothing left to be said, to be done, or even truly to be felt, and therefore little to be done to fix the excruciating loss he was going through.    
  
“Stop whining,” was the only gruff, unamused answer he received. He didn’t need to look up to know his friend was probably browsing the bar, looking through his options should he choose to take anyone home that evening. His drink would be in hand, twisted from side to side as he considered his choices, and it was all he’d need to summon his natural confidence. Martín couldn’t see the need for him to be there for any of it.    
  
“Then maybe you should have left me alone and I wouldn’t be ruining your libido,” he huffed, twisting onto his back when his best efforts proved fruitless. He rolled back to sitting up, but immediately folded back over the table, invading Jirair’s space on the other side.    
  
“You can sulk all you want, or you can move on,” he replied, putting his drink down. “There has to be something that catches your eye in here. A real distraction might do you good.”    
  
He rolled his eyes, propping his chin up just enough to look at his friend. Nothing was going to _do him good_ , because he knew the only good thing he’d ever held onto was gone. He couldn’t speak to the depth of the things destroying the final pieces of his soul, the chill in his bones, or the raw, exposed wound left behind by one insignificant kiss and cruel lies. Even if Jirair was willing to listen to him drone about emotions, it required facing things he only wanted to forget. Memories flashed across his eyes, shadows calling out to him as if embracing them might just rewind time. If he surrendered and allowed their arms around him, he might be able to continue his downward spiral enough until there was something inside of him again. Now, he was as hollow as he was jaded and cold.    
  
Anything would be better than drowning in the twirling mix of lasting affection and anguish which seemed centralized on the left side of his chest. “To the bar?” He suggested, rising from the table.    
  
He wasn’t sure when the overwhelming need to feel something other than the taxing emotional pain overcame him. It was stupid, to crave release from the bonds that tied him to his misery. There was so little strength left inside of him, and it was all used to keep him standing upright. He knew better than to poke at the little lines that were his friend’s weakness, and under normal circumstances he would have never dared. The twisted, sickening though kept creeping up in his head all the same, venomous words dancing on his tongue as he thought it over. As he leaned against the bar, trying to make sense of it all, he knew what he had to do to try and move on from all of this. Better to beg for forgiveness from Jirair than to keep dragging his feet in his sorrow. It wouldn’t be the first, and hopefully not the last, time crass words elicited a physical response from his friend.

And if he could just feel something else,  _ anything  _ else, for more than five seconds, he could try to paste together the shattered pieces of glass that was his life. The wicked little smile curled on his face, stomach filled with acid as he started to go through with the little plan he’d hatched.    
  
“You don’t need to babysit me anymore. I know you couldn’t give a damn. You’re hardly attentive, isn’t that why Maria called things off?” His friend stiffed, a roll of his eyes suggesting he would not fall victim to such easy bait. Instead, he turned to the bartender, placing an order for two drinks. He huffed, ready to roll up his sleeves and dig deeper until he got the response he wanted. “You can’t keep anything consistent in your life, can you? You’re just like me, not good enough for anything or anybody.”    
  
He grabbed the bottle of beer left for him, taking a large swig as he tapped his ear, before pointing to one of the loudspeakers. “I’d rather listen to this shitty music than you.”    
  
“Why? Malparido, you have nothing to offer anyone. You might as well let yourself be stepped on. You’re good at that, only serving one purpose for anyone who has ever met you. You’re just a hulking beast. People know what they can get from you, they take it, and then they're gone again.” The words were coming out faster with each syllable, speech starting to slur as each seemed to bounce off Jirair and knock back at him. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping at the ends in his frustration. This simply wouldn’t do. He  _ needed  _ to be broken physically to get through the toxic emotional storm brewing inside of him.    
  
“Martín, shut up.”

  
But he just couldn’t bring himself to. He knew the reason the words held no affect on his friend, and  _ finally _ he aimed where he knew it would actually hurt. "You're out here, dragging me around like you have any idea how to help me. I'm not one of your bastard kids. You're not suddenly papá of the year." He squared his shoulders, hand wrapped around the edge of the bar as he braced for impact. Satisfaction should have been his, vicious words strong enough to entice a physical response from his friend who only lashed out when he needed to. He flinched after a moment passed, shoulders trembling as his will to feel something physical over the cancerous vacuum inside of him shrank for just a moment. One eye took a peek to find his friend no longer standing in front of him, back turned and a few feet ahead as he made for the exit.    
  
_ Alone._ He was alone again with no one to blame but himself. His face fell forward into his hands, tears returning once again as it all washed over him. For as hard as he tried to surrender, there was no escape. Firenze paralyzed him with harrowing images, as every bridge burned around him. His throat constricted, not that the sensation was anything new. He had been unable to breathe for weeks now, since that damned speech started, fuzzing the lines of his self-restraint. The memory of his hands reaching to grab, to hold, to  _ touch _ that which was never his,  _ him _ who left only moments after, wrecked every normal function of his body. 

His legs should be carrying him out into the night, as quickly and as far as he could get. He needed to have that strength to escape the things plaguing him, but how could he truly bring himself to let go? He’d been so close to everything he’d ever wanted, until it was taken away from him. Escape seemed futile: escape meant to leave everything behind, to move on with his life without  _ him _ . To  _ forget _ Andrés. The mere thought of it wretched a cry from somewhere deep and fiery in his lungs. The dull ache of slow heartbeats made him sob into hands. 

This was not the life he wanted, but it was the only one he had left.    
  
The pattering of rain against his tin roof filled the room as he closed his eyes against the back of the tattered sofa. His hand kept loose around the neck of whichever new bottle he’d picked up from the long line. He tried to ignore the stinging of his eyes, puffy and drooping from the lack of sleep he allowed his body. At least the low grumble of his stomach had finally silenced itself, giving up on the hopes he might tend to his physical needs. There was little point now, anyway. He’d arrived back in Palermo only a few short days ago, alone and miserable—not that either were truly new. Jirair hadn’t come anywhere near him since he’d aimed low with heartless words in an attempt to elicit some type of physical suffering for himself. At least here, he was now also free of Demir’s cautious, silent concern expressed in the way he tried to leave food and water around the monastery as though he were one of his treasured pets. He would live the rest of his days out in his little hollow shack, mocked by the usually warm climate and sunny days Sicily could offer.    
  
The rain continued, but a second noise seemed to stand out in contrast now. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to block out hallucination caused by his sleep deprivation. Still, the mindful tapping on the door kept its continued insistence. He reminded himself he’d left Firenze only a few days ago, when drowning himself in his misery would no longer do anything to quell the ravenous demons that were his memories, etched into every corner of the monastery. The person who usually came to summon him would not be here, and Demir and Jirair would  _ never  _ go to such lengths. He picked up one of the crappy pillows next to him, chucking it at the door as though it might drown out the additional noise. His best hope was that one of the neighbors had mistaken his house for their own, but even that was a long shot.    
  
“Go away,” he groaned, voice hoarse from lack of use and probably very inaudible compared to the increased drops of rain.    
  
“Martín? Open up.” And the softer voice on the other side of the door made his skin crawl, stomach churning as he immediately recognized its owner. At least this time his mind had come up with a new way to manipulate him. Even with the door closed, the winds outside his window seemed to fill the room now, leaving an airy chill. Some part of him should find solace, some sort of twisted compassion, in the sweeter, feminine voice plaguing his memory. _Anything_ should be better than a decade’s worth of memories. 

The knocking continued, pulling him back from his spiraling. “Martín, I’d rather not pick the lock but I will.”    
  
He found the will to throw himself up from the sofa then. If he just peeked from the other side of the door, the little trick would evaporate as quickly as it’d come. The blood rushing to his head as he stood blurred his vision, twirling black circles more in view than the rest of the room. He stumbled, knocking into objects he couldn’t identify as he dragged himself in the direction of the door. Miraculously, his hand found the door knob, and he fumbled with the turned locked. The knocking had stopped when he started messing with the handle, and he felt the simple, tormented smile forming over his face certain his theory would prove true.    
  
That was until red curls were the first thing to come into his view, mostly covered by the beige hood of a rain peacoat with drops of water coming together to form longer little streams. He blinked, shaking his head again, squeezing his eyes tighter together. He could feel the smile cracking on his face, lips trembling as he tried to fight what was breaking away at his resolve. It simply didn’t make any sense. Out of anyone, Tatiana would be the last person he expected to be here. True, they had been unlikely friends for the better part of the last year—but their connection had since been broken. Yet, as a small hand lightly pressed against his tear-stained cheek, wiping away flecks of sleep from the corner of his eye and filling his face with a burning rush of heat, he could no longer deny the truth.    
  
“Tatiana,” he choked, raspy and angrier than he’d intended. He  _ should _ swat her hand away, but the warmth was an open flame and he wouldn’t dare do anything other than lean into the sincere kindness. “What are you doing here?”    
  
“I’m here for you,” she replied, waiting a moment longer before she pulled her hand away slowly to allow herself into the room. She moved to shut the door behind her, locking it once more. Her slow motions only hastened then to pull his hand into hers, bringing him back to the sofa. It was only then he heard the little rustles of the plastic bag in her other hand, styrofoam containers of different shapes filling it. He looked between it and the damned look of determination painted in her eyes, and his quivering lips crept into a small scowl.    
  
“You really shouldn’t be. Who sent you here?”    
  
“Nobody _sent me here._ I came on my own. You should know by now I don’t take kindly to being ordered around.”    
  
“Then  _ why  _ are you here,” he grumbled, falling back on the sofa, legs shaking. He was simply too weak to support his weight any longer. Little flecks of stuffing popped up from the force, and he flicked them away. Part of him knew he should probably feel bad about the state of his disarray his home was in, but he couldn’t be bothered to care about it when he was so incapable of even caring about himself.    
  
“I already told you, I’m here for you.” She sat down next to him, holding his hands in both of hers. He really wished he had the will to send her away again, but the contact was the first thing making him feel anything other than the numb left behind in the cruel void ripped into his heart.. “I won’t ask you how you are, I’m capable of putting that together myself.” 

  
He nodded, hardly able to stomach looking at her. If she were anyone else, he might have truly been able to appreciate her presence. He had few relationships he’d established on his own, and perhaps their improbable friendship was just as much his own work for his own purposes as it was a result of trying to keep Andrés happy. He had, after all, championed for her on more than one occasion: from the way he included her in their plans for the Bank of Spain, to siding with her over silly disputes. He’d grown fond of her, in a way he stupidly shouldn’t have, considering that she was capable of holding a place he never could. But with the mix of scents coming from the boxed food, and the little circles rubbed on the back of his hands, he found himself just as incapable of detesting her anymore than he had over the last year of his life.    
  
“You should go wash up, before you come back and eat. Though, if you don’t have enough strength maybe you should have a little something first,” she instructed, and something in her voice warned him not to even attempt a counter argument against his two given choices. Any fight he might have had in him melted into a nod, wondering if she might be gone by the time he came back out.    
  
Doing as he was told had become second nature to him. The cold, pathetic stream of water coming from his shower head might be the last chance at shaking the illusion he was no longer lost in solitude, hitting his face and softening dry skin. He could drift off right there, if not for the sounds still coming from the other room. Cabinets were being closed, and something that sounded like a spray bottle followed. He didn’t understand why she was going through so much effort to bathe, feed, and clean up his messes when he was so determined to avoid them himself. Still, he wasn’t going to argue with her now, knowing full well she had more energy to keep up any dispute. He turned off the water when he felt relatively decent for his company, grabbing his towel and quickly finishing the routine of changing into a fresh wardrobe. He opted for his best pair of joggers and cleanest shirt, though both were still stained and worn.    
  
“Why did you come here alone?” He asked, taking his path back to the sofa and the arranged food on the coffee table she’d arranged for him one step after the next. As far as unexpected visitors went, she might have been the best though he never could have anticipated. Part of him should be grateful. Instead, he sunk into the sofa. Stress knotted between his shoulders and lower back, afraid of her answer because it was still only an assumption.   
  
“I came to see you after everything that happened when I last saw him,” she replied, putting down the crumbled wash rag she was using to make his home a little more presentable. She watched him, tongue running along her bottom lip as though she were contemplating exactly what she needed to tell him.    
  
“Tatiana,  _ why  _ are you here?” He questioned again, picking at his calloused palm as he tried to get comfortable on his sofa once more.    
  
She came around to sit on the opposite side, still hesitant in her responses. She reached out to rest two fingers on his palm, grabbing his attention enough to get her to look at him. She spoke slowly, as though she was trying not to spook him. “He’s left for Sergio’s plans, but I don’t think he has any intention on coming back from the Mint. I saw the look in his eyes, Martín, it was like crossing off boxes on a check list.”    
  
“And if he won’t come back for you, what makes you think he’d listen to a damned thing I’d have to tell him? I’m sure you’ve noticed we are hardly on speaking terms anymore.”    
  
“Because it’s _you,_ Martín. He values you more than anything.” Words of protest lodged in his throat, a poor attempt at dissuading her statement stammering off his tongue until she held up her hand to cut him off. “Please, don’t try and tell me I’m wrong. I know him well enough to know that.”    
  
“Then what do you expect me to do about it, Tatiana?” He snapped, turning away from looking at her. The chip on his shoulder tightened, his words flaked with animosity. Tears of anger pricked at the corners of his eyes, frustration making his head pound. If asked by his beloved’s kind wife, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do anything other than jump into action.    
  
After a pause, her unexpected answer came. “I’m not asking you to do anything. That’s for you to decide. I wasn’t planning on letting you know, until I realized that you’re the only one who should choose if you let him go like that or not.”    
  
A fragile laugh broke free from his lips in response, the first tears streaming down his face with it. With the way she phrased it, he had to wonder if she  _ knew _ what had transpired in Firenze. If that were the case, it cheapened the already frail meaning of declarations and passionate actions. “Nobody decides things for Andrés, least of all me.”    
  
“Why not? Is it not for us to do what is best for those we love, even if they can’t see it themselves? You are in love with him, shouldn’t you at least have the chance to act in his best interest?” He twisted his head to look back at her, her words taking a tight hold on the shards of his heart. It wrenched at him, knowing he had done very little to hide his true feelings for the man who should have only ever been his best friend, but still somehow feeling the breath knocked out of him at the accusation. Unlike his other wives who had lashed out at him when they started to pick up on it, Tatiana’s words were said as easily as one might point out it was still raining outside. Sharp inhales through his nose forced him to fill his lungs, and truly consider a response before he broke out into pathetic shouts. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?” And this time, it was meant to serve as a cushion more than an actual question. She must have regretted spooking him so easily, but it was too late for that now.    
  
“Why are you asking me if I’m in love with your husband?”    
  
“Does it matter? You are in love with him, aren’t you?” She repeated, more insistent now. She was stubbornly holding onto the real topic of conversation, not letting it shift onto her intentions. Her hand rested reassuringly on his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze as she waited patiently. How he wished it would be easy to yell at her to get out, to be able to give into the flashing red lights going off in his head screaming at him to run away from the topic. “I’m not an obstacle, Martín. It was never my intention to be one, and I’m not anymore.”    
  
“What is that supposed to mean?” He bit back, fingers pinching at his temples as the tension built up. Even in his best moods, he didn’t like how everyone around him insisted on speaking in damned riddles, avoiding speaking plainly. “You’re his _wife_ , Tatiana. If you have something to blame me for, just get on with it will you?”    
  
“I’m no longer his wife. We divorced, but I blame  _ you _ for nothing. Now will you stop avoiding the question?” And her palm was flat against his cheek again, sympathetic and far too benevolent than he knew he deserved. Tears stung in his eyes, the weight of wasted time denying the answer to her question making him shiver from an icy phantom plaguing him from weeks now. He would not say those words to her, when they’d been left unheard by Andrés. Years and years of carrying this beautiful burden hadn’t even allowed them to be spoken when he was alone, but he’d missed his opportunity.    
  


Now, he had to live with saying them to the  _ wrong  _ brother, under the  _ wrong  _ circumstances. He would not do the same with Tatiana. 

  
“No.” The word was almost lost between his despairing cries as he fell forward, her hand moving to cradle the back of his head as the other tightly wrapped around him. He knew better. He knew he should not be seeking comfort in her this way. Soothing fingers massaged the tension between his shoulders, coaxing him through the quiet, grievous sobs fracturing from his chest to his ribs. In her arms, there was an undeniable understanding of the words, and it was enough to satisfy her. Now, she pushed no further, rocking him strong. For as unselfish her intentions for coming to him were, it was still not her touches that could completely heal all of his damage. Even her fiery warmth barely pricked his skin, certainly not enough to break through to his frigid bones.    
  
Hours could have ticked by in the time it took for his cries to mellow out to a soft whimpering. She held him all the same, her chin tucked on the middle of his head. The storms inside of him returned to the howling winds, but his eyes dried out. His lips cracked, throat parched from his cries when he had nothing else to give. Her fingers rubbed the nape of his neck, soothing out a strained knot forming there. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his own hands folded around her back as he kept her close.    
  
“No, I am. I just wanted you to know, and maybe I shouldn’t have. I just thought if it were me, I might want the chance to do something before it was too late.” She moved her hands to caress his face, brushing away unruly hair as she faintly kissed his forehead. “Darling, no one expects you to run after him after what he did. You are free to do whatever you wish.”    
  


“I don’t—”

“But, he’ll let the walls of that Mint crumble down on him without you.” She finished speaking, a free hand combing the back of his head loosely. 

  
His first thought went away as easily as it came, as the image in his head immediately floated to Sergio. Surely, Andrés would not put his brother through such suffering. They all knew he was dying, of course, but there was a right and a wrong way to go about these things. Andrés knew that. He  _ had _ to. 

It wasn’t that Tatiana had stupidly misunderstood his message, either. She was brilliant and he knew it. But, years of knowing Andrés left it easy for him to assume a poor translation of some cryptic message he provided her. He wouldn’t jump to such extremes to be in control of his fate, Martín tried to rationalize. Andrés was stubborn and unhappy with the diagnosis life handed him, but above all else he loved Sergio. His brother’s plan would not be marred by his death.    
  
“Thank you,” he added, finally pulling himself away from her arms. His eyes drooped, heavy from the sleep trying to claim him after such strenuous emotions were so openly on display. “I appreciate your concern.”    
  
“I’m in Palermo for a few more days,” she informed him, wrapping her arm around his middle as she started to guide him away to the better comfort of his bed. “Demir is here too, so rest up for a while and then come and see us please? I’ll leave you a card for the hotel. The sun should come out tomorrow, and you need it.”    
  
He nodded, falling onto something soft as he could no longer keep his eyes open. He felt the scratch of his cheap blanket being tucked around him as he nuzzled his face into the thin pillow.   
  
The next thing he knew, he was shooting upright in bed, a stream of sweat rolling down his forehead as he woke from the terror of his dream. He rubbed violently at his eyes as he tried to fight his way out of the darkness he’d been submerged into by his subconscious. Bright green, targeted lasers had come from one end of the narrow hallway and had left his eyes stinging. Hauntingly detailed sounds still rang in his ears. His right hand moved from his eyes to grasp the left side of his chest, frantic beats defeating any attempts at shaking off the nightmare. The sudden intense response of his heart seemed to be making up for lost time, just as much as it seemed to be responding to the terror from his dream. It was almost funny how the organ could suddenly work so well after weeks of pain and suffering, shocked back to life by the same person that had ripped it to shreds.    
  
Even for his continual state of bitterness, the idea of Andrés’ death was taking a profound toll on his body. Thick tears rolled down his cheeks as he fell back against the mess of pillows behind him. His knees instinctively pulled closer to his chest, assuming the shape of a tight ball. His arms wrapped under the back of his knees, neck curved moving his head just a few inches away. The strain in his back was hardly recognizable, agony hitting in stronger waves easily able to block out something so minute. He had been discarded. He shouldn’t care so much what would become of Andrés in the Royal Mint. Ten years worth of friendship would fade into black if he would just release his hold. Instead, he had become the tin man in Andrés’ absence: void and meaningless. He had no purpose, no reason. 

He should let the other man be damned for the way he’d tried to convince them both distance would heal festering wounds. 

  
Jirair had tried to get that through to him from the beginning. It had been a couple weeks since he’d been left alone, his friend lacking the time and patience required to force him into dealing with his tremendous depression. Tatiana’s unexpected visit, which could easily have been anywhere from a few hours to a few days ago, had to be the catalyst that evoked the excruciating dream. She’d only encouraged the beautiful sentiments he’d desperately wanted to hear from Andrés for years, but he still did not see the purpose in her visit. He thought himself resigned to live with the anguish, only to find himself swept up once again. He rocked himself, hoping the gentle movement would be enough to queal the increasingly wild beating of his heart.    
  


But jarring images were the only things left to claim him, apart from his suffering. His knees had dropped, knocking against the square frame of the television screen. Fingers had tried to stroke the lettering of the headlines, and had tore him apart at a promise maliciously broken. Finally, the memory of the nightmare made him crumble again into a shattered sob. He accepted the truth of Tatiana’s accusations. He accepted the terrible truth of the nightmare, wailing. 

“ _Le faltan algunos jugadores_ ,” he cried, slamming a weak fist against the side of his leg. Certainly, there was something to be said of not wanting to live half a life. But Andrés’ illness was not as debilitating as he played it up to be. A few treatments, in exchange for an extended life span. He was still more mortal than most, but they could have their crowning glory, novels written to immortalize their story. 

If only he had been willing to meet him there. 

He was determined to make the words stick with Martín, to force him to accept a half truth. For it wasn’t impossible. Difficult, yes. He knew it would be devastating in the future. But there was nothing impossible, not for them, if Andrés had just never let go. 

He whisked away the pools of tears set in his eyes, taking a heavy breath as he unfolded his body from the fetal position. He took a deep breath as he rolled onto his back, staring up at the empty ceiling, a hand running through his hair. At his core, Martín knew he had always been simple. Andrés soared amongst the birds, always floating higher and testing his limits. Martín tried to fly with him, but was usually content to watch as he smiled down at him. Now, Andrés was going to clip his own wings, far too soon and sudden. His brother held onto silent false hopes Andrés would come to see the benefit of pursuing treatments and would be unsuspecting of his true intentions upon entering the Mint. For him, the realization had been building for weeks, subtle hints trying to speak out to him to piece together. He had either been too blind to decipher their true meaning, or too stubborn to accept them, but the picture was no longer hazy. He found the strength to throw his legs over the side of the bed, pushing up hard from the mattress as he walked towards his desk. A new determination warmed him in the surprisingly bitter summer cold, hands searching feverly through one of the drawers for a pad of paper. Pen in hand, the soft moonlight would suffice as light as he jotted down the first of his notes. 

He was filled with a new, unconquerable purpose, a precise mission in his mind.    
  
For even if Andrés did not love him, his final declaration to Martín meant to simply be words he could hold onto to cushion the blow of their final goodbye, it did not mean he loved the other man any less. Years and years of endless devotion were not so easily forgotten, even when unrequited. But if he simply let Andrés walk away to accept an early grave, there would be no time to test the  _ marvelous _ bond between them. He owed it to the both of them to act now, in a way no one else but him would be able to do. Their small band of friends and even his brother would be powerless to Andrés’ stubborn will, but not Martín. After all, Andrés had lost the right to control his decisions when he left  _ how _ he did. Perhaps a more crushing blow, confirmation of the things he’d always told himself he knew, might have been better. That was not the actions Andrés had pursued, which left him with one undeniable option of what he needed to do.    
  
He was going into the Mint. Andrés would not die, not like this. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Clean shaven and freshly showered, Martín found his way to the agreed upon cafe. Thick rimmed polarized sunglasses covered his eyes,which was barely an aid to his dilated pupils after being stuck in the dark for so long. Still, he was in a better mood than he had been since that disastrous night, and the thin upward curl of his lips seemed to be genuine. The hot midday sun beat down on the back of his neck, chipping away at some of the chill in his bones. None of it would ever be quite enough, and he wondered if anything ever would be. His hand clutched at the leather messenger bag wrapped around his shoulder, carefully arranged notes seeming to mock him now. He halted midstep, fingers trailing down the strap. After all, what was he really doing this for? He couldn’t bring himself to only do it for himself, because regardless of what he hoped for, he knew he wasn’t enough. He  _ wasn’t  _ enough. But, somewhere along the way, he would find something that was. 

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, jaw tightening as his surroundings started to be drowned out. Doubt in his plans was as blinding as it was crushing. It wasn’t until Tatiana waved at him from their table, grabbing his attention, that he could keep from falling so easily back into his pits of despair.    
  
"I'm going to Madrid.” He lowered himself into the empty chair at their table, sinking as he spread his legs and made himself comfortable. He knew he was coming off cocky, far too self assured for a man who had only hatched the starts of his plan to infiltrate the Royal Mint first on a few measly hours of sleep. It needed more work before he would be ready, but he had a rough estimate of how long it would take for Sergio’s little band to arrive, led by the strong-willed man he was beginning to feel ready to be faced with once again. 

With the way Tatiana beamed at him, removing her own sunglasses to express the full extent of her joy at his announcement, he felt reassured in his decision. But, from the corner of his other eye, he saw Demir lower his menu and turn his full attention to him. 

"You cannot be serious.” He had never seen Demir’s face gape so openly, and even now as he glanced back and forth between him and Tatiana, it was still surprisingly reserved. “What did you say to him?" 

"What I needed to," Tatiana said, a small grin on her face. "But he made his own decisions," she finished, lifting her ceramic mug to her lips.    
  


“You can’t really think this is a good idea, Martín.” There was the unexpected parental scolding again, and somehow he managed to only further relax in his chair. If Jirair had been unable to discipline him, he wasn’t about to sit and let Demir treat him like one of his beloved animals. 

"I'm going to enter the Royal Mint,” he repeated, looking his friend square in the eye from behind his glasses. His hand fell flat against his chest then as he continued, “you could come with me if you're so concerned about _little old moi_ ," he teased, flashing teeth as he stood his ground faced against Demir’s inverted brow and tightened vein in his forehead. 

The excessive silence followed his words, as though Demir could cut him down with a single look. Shrinking now didn’t make sense, not when he’d fought so hard to even get out of bed. Instead, Martín reached out to pat his hand against his friend’s cheek, only patronizing him further. As Demir knocked his hand away, he retorted, "I could also reach out to Sergio and let him know you plan on destroying his life’s work." 

"Please, do that. I’d hate to miss the look on his face, but it'll save me the trouble,” he smirked lazily, swiping up his menu from the table. It shouldn’t make him so chipper to put dents into what he knew was a rather flawless plan. But, if Sergio hadn’t taken into consideration unexpected  _ guests  _ in his variables, then that was hardly his fault.    
  
The menu was snatched out of his hands in the blink of an eye, and Martín leaned forward on a propped elbow. He looked at Demir over the lens of his glasses, searching his friend’s face as he felt his own being surveyed. The man looked ready to tie him up and throw him in a room until Sergio’s heist was over, but Martín wouldn’t have it. He looked back at Tatiana for just a moment, who was enjoying her cup of tea and ignoring the scene the two of them were making. He couldn’t blame her for refusing to get in between the two of them. This was no longer her fight, after all. Her job was done when Martín made his decision and he needed to be strong enough to stand on his own against Demir if he stood a chance at breaking through to Andrés. He glanced back just as quickly, a new raw, unwavering determination pooling in his eyes. He lowered his own brow, sitting taller as he removed his sunglasses. He knew there were thick bags under his eyes, an obvious redness in the whites and probably some residual puffiness. His friend had gone back to his usual silence, often best for thinking things completely through before speaking in short sentences and quick actions. A weaker man might have been intimidated by the scowl he wore, and Martín knew he truly was no match should Demir choose to strike. 

Still, as he thought of Andrés going through with shortsighted decision, he knew he had no choice.    
  
Something softer must have flashed in his eyes, because Demir sat back in his own chair. Martín itched to grab for his sunglasses, wanting to hide the full extent of his emotions but quickly decided against it. Instead, he kept looking at his friend, ego melting into sincerity.

“Is this about  _ him _ picking the better plan?”    
  
His ears pricked at the phrase, intended to make him flaunt his ego once again. Yes, he’d made his accusations, adamant his plan was more grandiose and deserving than the one Andrés had decided on. Tears stained his work, crumbled papers in his frustration at it all being for waste. But as he inhaled sharply, shaking his head from side to side, he knew something greater than his unkempt pride was at stake if he could not convince his friend to let him go back to Spain. 

“No. It’s about more than that. I don’t mean any harm to Sergio’s plan.” Truly, he meant it—or at least he wanted to. There was some childish part of him who wanted to show it was just as reckless an ordeal as Sergio insisted the Bank plan had been, but that side quieted more and more with each passing minute. This would never work if it stemmed from a rivalry. The flakes of his heart residing in his chest only seemed to come close enough together to produce steady beats when he thought of trying to make Andrés see reason. It wasn’t even about him and his discarded affections. He knew better than to make this about himself, because no one had ever stayed when he asked them too. But if Andrés was a danger to himself, and there was no denying he was, Martín would be there to get him through regardless of what it cost.    
  
“I won’t let Sergio know, for now,” Demir cautioned. Martín nodded, grateful at the silent agreement. There would be no room for slip ups while he prepared to enter the Mint. One step out of line, one display that his intentions changed and the job would be up before it even began. It was a test, but proving himself to Demir would prepare him for the harder task at hand.    
  
The conversation shifted back to something easier, as Tatiana spoke of her plans to spend some time in Cyprus on the beach. Martín’s mind stayed elsewhere, despite his efforts to politely participate in the discussion. The friendly smile on her face as she caught him lost in thought seemed to confirm that she knew his thoughts all too well, and expected nothing in return. Still, while he might not ever see her again, if his plans worked out, he would owe her a debt he could never repay for the rest of his life. 

  
At the very least, he owed it to Andrés to try.    



	3. 1 Week to Heist D-Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support and love for this fic! The action is going to start picking up very soon...but for now, there’s a little hint of a humorous surprise in this chapter ;) 
> 
> And more Demir! I love him too, and we love that you all love the names we chose for him and Bogotá. 
> 
> Myra x

**October 6, 2017: One Week to Heist D-Day**  
  
After three weeks of preparations, he’d studied enough about the mechanics of the money presses to impress the Director of the Mint—a short, glutinous man he already had far too much disdain for after only meeting with him once for half an hour. He’d almost walked out of that interview with the way the man kept getting distracted by his assistant sitting next to him, rather than the small panel of finalists for the position. When he’d been offered the job, he made a point not to rise and shake the man’s hand, beady eyes narrowing on him with the rejection. He made a note not to draw further attention to himself, knowing when the time came it wouldn’t work in his favor to be well recognized. It didn’t matter what he thought of his bosses or his coworkers after all, as long as he was able to learn from them. His focus needed to be unbreakable in whatever time he had leading up to the start of the heist. He would be working with a small team consisting of five others who all kept their heads down, making it far easier to get his own work done.  
  
His new position had been low enough to be ignored by any higher ups after the initial interview until his six weeks performance review. Martín knew he didn’t have anything to worry about, having kept his head low and hands busy doing his job. Despite his real intentions, he’d gotten rather good at it. There wasn’t always much to do, given that the machines ran rather flawlessly most of the time, but he had to work to make sure they stayed up and running, performing weekly quality control. There were a few other things around the Mint he was charged to take care of, which allowed him ample time to get acquainted with the layout. The gears turned in his head, considering the different nooks Sergio would be utilizing for his plans. The combination of knowledge of the layout and his experience working on the printers would be his first step in proving he had invaluable information to offer to the success of the heist. Andrés would undoubtedly be unhappy about seeing him—but not unreasonable. Insider knowledge and hands on experience willingly given would help ensure things ran smoothly while they were inside the Mint. He knew Sergio didn’t plan on dragging out the heist for longer than a week, and every little lag would make that goal harder to reach.  
  
He didn’t want to be a deterrent in keeping the job from its deadline, but he’d already started considering the ways he might have to derail plans in order to gain favor. Each intricate part of the machine needed to be carefully maintained, even the smallest gear or line of computer code threatening to bring it all to a halt if messed with minutely. He’d meant it when he promised Demir he wouldn’t openly try to bring Sergio’s plans burning to the ground, and he intended to do whatever it took not to be a nuisance. But, if it came down to it, he knew he needed to have that backup plan.  
  
He stopped in the employee area to pick up his jacket and few other belongings before heading home for the weekend, another work week spent in anticipation without anything happening. He never lost sight of the excitement somewhere in the back of his mind, his heart occasionally skipping beats whenever there was an unexpected loud noise, or the occasional case of one of the warehouse workers shouting just a little too loud. Each day brought a small amount of disappointment when nothing happened yet again, but each morning he came back and started off with a clear head, dedicated to trying to learn something new about the setting. He’d started to suspect something was going to be happening soon, judging by the way he’d seen less and less of Demir as the weeks went on. Whatever Sergio had decided he could be used for required more of him now, but uneventful quitting time came all the same.  
  
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back at him. He couldn’t account for how much research Sergio would do on each of the employees, but he’d known better than to walk in with his face and features. He’d let his hair grow out in the weeks before Tatiana had visited, untamed locks covering his eyes and running down the back of his neck. He’d taken to keeping the sides longer since then, while the hair towards the back of his head was more maintained. It required more product than he liked to keep the bangs parted to the right side of his head, while the other mess of hair was pushed out of his face. The majority of his upper lip was covered by a trimmed mustache, a final touch he had settled on in order to complete his new persona. It hadn’t been his favorite addition at first, too itchy and irritating against his skin, only getting worse the longer he let it grow. But, looking in the mirror and seeing a man who only similarly shared his features confirmed he’d made the right decisions.  
  
It had been a colder day so far, and he knew it would only get worse with the setting sun. He put on his beige suit jacket, wrapped the blue polka dot scarf around his neck, and prepared to find his way home. With any luck, Demir would still be away and he’d be able to sink into bed without a second thought. His mattress was more of a box spring than anything actually comfortable, but the surrounding darkness of his room was a comfort he longed for. Even with a renewed sense of purpose to his life, he could feel the heavy bags under his eyes, noticed how lethargic he was in his actions, and the still aching pieces of his tattered heart only further slowing him. He drank entirely too much coffee to get him through the day, but it was always one foot in front of the other to make sure he could get through the thick of it. He didn’t like how alone he felt, but there was nothing to be done to aid that, apart from the singular friendship he’d reluctantly struck up inside of the Mint.  
  
Mónica Gaztambide, with her sunny smile and head covered by bouncing, coiled golden curls, had taken an unusual amount of shine to him. He’d recognized her from his interview, the assistant dressed in the tight, grey dress that kept catching the Director’s eye. It didn’t take him long to learn she wasn’t the wife who had laid claim with the silver band on his finger, but that didn’t matter. There was an undeniable affair between them, one he wondered if was as obvious to everyone else as it was to him. He couldn’t imagine why a woman as naturally kind as her had opted for such a scumbag, but he really tried not to make it his place to ask any questions. Arturo Roman didn’t see _him_ as a threat to their illicit relationship, and it had been enough to make Mónica seek him out in the employee cafeteria or to offer him rides home at the end of the day. She was friendly to him, and though he knew he shouldn’t let it mean a thing, he needed something to hold onto and keep him going. He would never admit how much it meant to him aloud, but Demir’s emotional distance left him craving the grace Tatiana had shown him back in Palermo, both women serving as a pale shadow of the much deeper affection he’d lost months ago.  
  
Today though, there was something else going on. She was waiting for him at her desk, hands in her lap. Normally, she was finishing the last of her phone calls or sending out final emails for the weekend, her professional grin plastered on her face permanently whenever she was working. The corners of her lips were turned down today, as one hand moved to soothe the material of her dress that covered her stomach. As he got closer, he could almost see what looked like little tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. He bit his tongue, torn between his decision not to get involved with his coworkers and knowing they’d already passed the limits he’d wanted to set up. With a deep breath, he took the final few steps to her desk, leaning on his elbow as he tried to offer her a friendly smile of his own. “Everything okay, Mónica?” His contorted accent still made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, always unexpected and never the sound he expected to come from his tongue.  
  
She blinked up at him, right hand still flat against her stomach. The left whisked the tears away quickly, as though trying to hide the fact she’d been crying at all. He glanced down between the uncertainty painted on her face to the more than obvious way she was trying to comfort herself, filled with a sudden dread. It wasn’t his place to say anything about the assumptions he now had, but he could feel the stress making a little knot on his shoulder. If she was expecting, he truly wished he could encourage her to take some time off. He had no idea when that would actually be of use, and it would require giving too much away to explain why she should be out for an indefinite amount of time. That jackass in his plush office would never allow it anyway, though he knew he wouldn’t take kindly to the announcement he’d knocked up his mistress. Instead, Martín grabbed her hand, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Yes. I apologize, Clayderman, it’s just been a long day.”  
  
Jesus Clayderman. He still hated that name he’d chosen for himself, but it was the first that had come to him when crafting his new identity. He had no desire to spend a lengthy amount of time coming up with something else, and it seemed to fit the look he’d opted for. It still felt foreign after two months to be referred to as such, but he forced himself to focus on Mónica once again. “I can find another way home, if you’d rather go right back to yours. It’s not a problem,” he offered.  
  
“No, no. Of course not,” she replied, fighting a little sniffle. “I don’t mind. I think I’m getting a cold, though, if that bothers you. I’d hate to get you sick.” He rubbed his thumb against her hand for a moment, trying to offer comfort in his silent understanding. He knew better than to speak up and tell her he knew he couldn’t catch this from her, but it wasn’t his place to overstep. He could only imagine the thoughts running through her head and did not envy her the pain she must be going through. Even with his own heartbreaks, he knew he would never be able to compare to her predicament. Difficult decisions lied in her wake, and under better circumstances, someone like her would have made a beautifully picturesque mother.  
  
“Ready when you are,” he said with a wave of his hand and a half-bow. The theatrics of the movement were enough to make a shadow of a smile appear on his face, the best he was able to offer her. As they walked side by side to her car, he made a promise to himself to watch out for her in the weeks that would come. If their shared, unspoken theory proved correct, either decision she made would be enough turmoil without the stress of the heist. She was the only one who had actively shown him kindness without expecting anything in return, and he wouldn’t let that go unnoticed. He had enough to worry about with Andrés, but he wouldn’t let any harm come to Mónica either.  
  
Their usual car ride filled with swapping short stories about their day or humming along to one of the 80’s Spanish pop songs she loved was marked with silence today. He watched the passing of buildings and windows rolling past his head as she drove, giving them both privacy they needed. It wasn’t a long drive from the Royal Mint to the shabby two bedroom apartment he shared with Demir, and traffic remained pretty clear for the route this evening. When she pulled up to the front, he tried not to groan upon seeing the motorcycle parked out front. Whatever business his friend had had was over now, and his plans for sulking in his bedroom were gone once again. He grinned gratefully at Mónica all the same, pulling open his door after the car came to a full stop. “Thank you, again. I hope everything is better soon.” And oh, how he wished that little plea would be true for both of them. She at least stood a better chance at some future happiness coming her way, even through the struggling she might have to face. She gave him a little nod, waving goodbye as she quickly left after he’d shut the door.  
  
He looked up to the front window of his bedroom looking out onto the street, before shoving his hands into his pockets. The store at the end of the corner would at least give him an excuse not to go immediately inside, and the low grumble in his stomach reminded him he should probably eat. If he delayed long enough, Demir might have gone to bed and could just as easily be gone again tomorrow before Martín woke up. It was probably too much to ask to get his way, but the pain in his stomach bordered on a dull ache now, not to be ignored for a change.  
  
With the plastic bag in hand, filled with a few snacks, a new carton of milk, and a few things that could be confused for an attempt at a proper meal if he were still in his twenties, he finally made his way up the concrete steps. The house was dark and it felt promising for once. If he kept quiet, he wouldn’t wake Demir up and give him a reason to step out and yell at him. Mindfully, he took the creaking steps one at a time, making his way to the tiny kitchen. The pale yellow light gave him enough to assemble something to eat, losing himself in putting it on one of the small plates. It wasn’t until a ball of fur rushed past his hand, jerking him out of his thoughts, that he recognized he wasn’t alone in the room.  
  
Sundance made her way to her empty food bowl, turning her head to look at him. If he could talk to animals half as well as Demir seemed to, he might have been convinced he was seeing betrayal in the ferret’s black eyes when he only rubbed her head. His friend’s old companion was getting up there in years, but still ran across the counter spritely, looking for something to eat. He heard the flush of water down the hall, knowing it would only be a few minutes until he was joined by someone more human. He braced himself, taking a seat at the glorified coffee table they’d put in the room. He gave his friend a wide, toothy smile when he came in the room, before focusing on pushing around the food in front of him.  
  
“How was your trip?” He asked, already knowing he wouldn’t get much of an answer. He paid him no attention, focusing on getting into one of the cabinets to feed his pet. That wasn’t anything new, and for once he appreciated the familiarity of something from the simplicity of his past. He cracked the stale bread in his hands, comfortable in the silence that seemed to be all they’d share.  
  
“What are you going to do when this is all over, Martín?” His shoulders slumped, dropping his food back on the plate with a _thud_ , as if it were no better than a stone. He looked at him, clad in grey joggers and a tight fitting shirt, presenting the front he was more ready for bed than a more serious conversation.  
  
Martín stretched his arms out, encouraging a yawn as he procrastinated answering the question. “Well, I planned on taking a very long nap. Work was surprisingly hard this week. Arturo wouldn’t—”  
  
His friend looked unamused by his answer, jaw tight as he leaned back against the wall. He folded his arms over his chest, glancing up and down at Martín. Between the new haircut and mustache, he already knew he looked different. But Demir focused on some of his thinner features, his avoidance of properly taking care of himself becoming more noticeable around his stomach and cheekbones. He was far from looking frail, and he had never been particularly bulky, but he knew the lack of solid meals for months now were more obvious than he’d like. “I’ll eat better,” he promised with a wave of his hand, resuming his meal.  
  
“What are your plans after _the heist_?” He asked again, his eyebrow curved and lips thin.  
  
Martín took a deep breath through his nose, but he blew it out of his mouth. The sudden rush of concern for his plans should have alerted him to something having changed, but it was really just serving to annoy him. Truth be told, he had yet to think that far ahead. He knew that wasn’t the answer Demir was looking for, but it was all he could offer. He’d been working so hard to make sure he even got this far, between securing the job and studying everything he could, he’d forgotten what might come next. Certainly, he couldn’t align himself with the robbers and then step out of the Mint to his freedom. Even Stockholm Syndrome would fall flat as an excuse, given the amount of work he was willing to do and the fact he was a man. No judge would take pity on him for such an excuse, and without another plan of where to go, he’d probably rot in jail. Sergio had never gone into depths about what would happen after his plans were over, but he couldn’t count on the promise of being helped like the rest of the gang. None of that mattered, he still had time to come up with a solution to that problem. _Unles_ s—  
  
“What did you find out when you were gone?” He questioned, looking Demir square in the eye. The other man stayed stoic, giving nothing away in his gaze.  
  
“Don’t make me ask you again, Martín. What are your plans for after the heist?”  
  
“I’ll figure them out as I go along. It depends on a lot of things, doesn’t it?” He sneered, hating the concern that whispered against his ears, try as Demir might to keep it controlled.  
  
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he offered in response. Martín blinked back in surprise, the shift in his tone enough to confirm what he had already started to suspect. By the end of the month, the heist would be under full swing. He couldn’t know for certain which day any of it would begin, but something about the work calendar for the museum or the warehouse might be enough to tip him off. He was already running over things in his head, heart rate increasing as his mind started to run wild. Everything he had been working towards would be coming to light soon enough. A softer smile curled on his lips, dark brown eyes and charming smile flashing quickly in his memory. This was the longest he had gone for years without seeing Andrés, and even though the situation was not the most ideal, he still felt the flutters at the idea of seeing him again.  
  
It was reminder enough that it was, in fact, too late to change his mind. The nightmares still plagued him from time to time as he waited, warning him of how much he needed to do in order to stop events Andrés wanted etched in stone. It sounded too much like the prophecy out of some action movie, but something inside of him confirmed it all for him. He didn’t have anything left to lose if he was wrong anyway.  
  
Pushing his plate away, he nodded at his friend. “It is too late.” _Andrés needs me_ , his thoughts whispered.  
  
“And what happens to you after being an accessory to his heist?” That question made him huff, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d long ago given up on doing what was best for himself. For as much as he loved Andrés, had wallowed in his own misery in his absence, he knew this truly wasn’t about him. If anything he’d ever done in his life had allowed him to put himself first, the demons that plagued him wouldn’t exist. He wouldn’t carry years of pain and heavy reminders he had never been enough. He had come closest with Andrés, but it was still always about what he could be for the other man. Still, despite the wound inflicted in what should have been their final goodbye, he couldn’t let it all end bleakly.  
  
“I appreciate your concern, but the risks are nothing new. I don’t think I need to remind you that this is not my first time breaking the law.”  
  
Demir nodded as they fell into an uneasy silence. His pet ran back up his arm, finding shelter on his shoulder, curling against the curve of his neck. He stroked her head, seeming to contemplate something before he was willing to speak again. “I’ll wish you luck, then. I am leaving again tomorrow.”  
  
With a final thank you falling off his tongue, Martín watched as his friend made his way back to his bedroom. Exhaustion hit him strongly, the confirmation that his decisions would soon be finally heavily weighed on his mind. He knew time had been building up to this moment, and doubting his resignation now wouldn’t do him any good. He had enough of an idea of what he was getting himself into when he’d left his seclusion in Palermo. He was charging forward, no matter the personal costs that awaited him on the other end.  
  
**October 13, 2017:**  
  
The hours had ticked away to Friday morning, the impending bomb waiting to implode around them. Try as he might the night before, he was unable to get any sleep. Each night since Demir left once again left him further on edge, wondering when things were going to happen. He’d been unable to find anything concrete to give him any indication on what day Sergio would have carefully selected. He knew school field trips were scheduled for Fridays, leverage to no doubt be used against the police in the most peaceful way possible. Still, none of the school names gave him any helpful information against the rest. But when he’d woken up that morning after tossing and turning, his nerves felt like they were set on fire. Anticipation had grown into something more, an almost certainty building from his gut that was sending signals to the rest of his body.  
  
Somehow, he just _knew.  
  
_If he believed in superstition, he might have disparaged in the heist start on a Friday the 13th, a sign of bad luck against the band’s favor. Luck had no place in careful calculations and masterfully designed plans, it never had. Sergio’s gang needs no more luck than he did, each having been preparing for their upcoming tasks the best ways they could. He trusted Sergio’s decisions, knowing far too well how much time and attention had been poured into his plans. There was only one miscalculation on his part, and Martín would be there to account for the margin of error.  
  
He just needed a chance to prove himself.  
  
When he arrived at work, he started to craft his chance to prove himself useful. Things could easily go wrong with the mechanics of the money printers, and while some suspicions might fall on his shoulders he knew it wouldn’t do anyone any good to dwell on it. His services would quickly become a necessity Andrés couldn’t deny. He could feel the twisted, small smirk spreading on his face, knowing all too well he shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. Even as focused as he was on loosening one of the gears on the timing belt, he couldn’t help his own self-satisfaction. He knew he was doing this for Andrés’ best interest, but there was still a part of himself willing to fight to show why he shouldn’t have been so easily discarded in Firenze. Distant, distinct pops coming from the warehouse formed little goosebumps on his arms, pulling him from his thoughts as he recognized the sound almost immediately for what it was and what it meant. He walked away from the printers, sitting at his station as shouts started to fill the different nearby rooms. Gunshots followed, and Martín smiled.  
  
Andrés was in the Mint.  
  



	4. Heist D-Day, 8:35AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> We're back with Andrés today, and finally into the Mint with a chapter that explore a bit of his psychology as the heist really starts! Thank you again for the love and support we are getting for this story, it warms us to read every comments, tweets, DMs or even sometimes texts about TOS. 
> 
> Cassy x

Andrés woke to the sound of something — a lamp, if he had to bet — crashing noisily in the room next to his. It jolted him out of the deep sleep he had fallen prey to after the burning shower he took the night before, disorientated and adrenaline already pumping in his veins, ready to react to any danger that might come his way. He almost threw himself out of his bed looking for his gun before remembering at the last second he was still in Toledo. 

His legs were shaky when his feet hit the cold floor and it took him a moment to calm his breath, even more to get his trembling hands under control. He couldn’t remember what he dreamt of exactly, only his own lifeless eyes staring blankly up at him, but the gutting feeling was still lingering in the back of his brain. Tokio and Río’s pornographic moans next door soured his already deteriorating mood but he pushed himself out of bed anyway, turning on the light and looking for the medicine he hid from curious eyes. 

The stockpile of Tramadol he ordered to get through the heist seemed to glimmer under his hands, the clear colourless solution encased in glass ampoules reflecting the light almost prettily. Andrés’ lips thinned but the dream had rattled him enough to shot down his precious control over his pain levels. He selected one of the lowest effective dose of the analgesia, wary of the side effects that could affect him when he had to stay viciously alert. He took his time preparing the dose, diluting the solution and generally being slow in the administration of the intramuscularly injection, using the recommended two to three minutes to shoot the product. Tokio’s cat-like wails served as a measure of time passing and he pushed the final dose with a mocking smirk in their general direction. 

_That was quick_ , he thought as he opened and closed his hand slowly to dispel the tickling numbing feeling the injection always provoked, _but no wonder when your lover is young and still inexperienced_. 

He wasn’t certain the dose he took would be enough to stop the searing pain of his damaged body, but at least the secondary effects shouldn’t be too bad. Tremors couldn’t be allowed when they entered the Mint and the somnolence and dizziness that drowned his cognitive functions for a few hours free of pain weren’t worth the danger he would put the entire team in if high on opioids. 

A glance at the watch he discarded near his bed told him rolling over and going back to sleep wouldn’t be worth it, not when his alarm had been programmed to blare in the next forty-five minutes, more or less. Instead, Andrés enjoyed the disquieting silence of the early morning while he dressed in the inconspicuous black clothes he had chosen for the first part of their mission. After one final check for anything he might have forgotten that could betray his identity, he threw over his shoulder his bag of personal effects and crept out of his bedroom in silence, ignoring the timid noise coming from Río’s door when it closed behind the young man. 

The kitchen was deserted at this hour of the morning and black tea was all Andrés craved before stress and excitation woke everyone up. He knew though that coffee was what would allow him to go through the day ahead. Religiously, he started filling the bottom of the moka pot with cold water, then reached for his favourite espresso grinds to place a few spoons in the filter, both up to the rim. Once all three parts where tightly screwed together and heating on the stove at low heat, Andrés grabbed a pan, eggs, vegetables and started making a quick omelette. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board with regularity was welcomed, the motions practiced enough to be relaxing despite how challenging it had been to learn how to cook for a still unwell Sergio, back when it all began.

“Berlín?” called Tokio’s voice from the hall, way too cheerfully for this particular morning, and he sighed because _obviously_ she was hungry and onions frying with yellow zucchini and sun-roasted tomatoes were enough to make her search for the origin of the smell. “Is that you cooking? If it’s you I’m calling dibs on whatever you’re doing!” 

“Shouldn’t you be catching some beauty sleep before we go without it for days? We wouldn’t want to see wrinkles on your doll face,” he said as eggs cracked in the pan where he poured them. Memories of his childhood were quickly locked up, the woman’s presence dispelling the illusion of privacy Andrés had been under. He pricked her wandering hand with the fork nearest to him, and she pouted in what she probably aimed to be seductive and attractive, hoping to sway him. 

“Come on, it’s only the two of us. We can share, it will be our little secret,” needled Tokio as she went after the mocha pot. He let her pour two cups of coffee and noted how she didn’t add sugar in his before turning the handle toward him. “I can even make myself useful look: no milk, no sugar, nothing spicy that makes life more sweet. Pitch dark like your soul or whatever— just like you love it!”

He hid his amused grin, getting the runny omelette out of the pan and on a single plate instead of answering her. She didn’t have much patience, and Andrés only had time to drink a sip of coffee, the bitter taste hitting him with all its flavor, before Tokio spoke up again, “I’ll do the clean up?” 

“Finally, we speak the same language.”

They shared their breakfast in relative silence, Andrés only acknowledging Tokio’s attempts to strike a conversation with aloofness. It didn’t seem to bother her too much and she finished her meal quickly, letting him muse and focus on the mission. He stood when Nairobi came looking for food, her usual exuberance dimmed now that she was faced with the reality of their last few hours of freedom. He wondered what was going in everyone’s head, if fear or anticipation ruled their thoughts, if they wished they could leave or be done with it already— if they knew he wished not to come out of it alive, despite how secretive he had been with his true intentions. When he pulled the chair he had previously occupied for Nairobi with gallant flourish, she spared a smile for him and he winked back teasingly, making her roll her eyes and huff a laugh. 

He didn’t see anyone else before it was time to leave, all crammed into the van Sergio— _El Profesor_ — had bought months ago and what could have been an hour long trip took much more time. Still, they had no choice but to go by the little roads until they found the place El Profesor had marked as safe to steal the much larger truck full of papers that was scheduled to arrive at the Royal Mint of Spain in less than two hours. 

Despite the masks covering their features, Andrés could almost see the air vibrating with tension and stress. He basked in the restlessness, reveling in the way all his senses sharpened in anticipation, in the weight of his gun safely tucked against his side, in the delicate moment _before_ where time seemed suspended. 

Until Río, with all the coping mechanisms of a nineteen years old boy, peeled his mask off to look at him. 

“Who chose the masks?” 

Behind the protection and anonymity of Dalì, Andrés rolled his eyes.

“What's wrong with the masks?” he said, trying to see if the question had any value outside the ice breaker it was meant to be, the reluctant need to talk and dispel the heaviness that seemed to cloud Río’s thoughts. 

“They're not scary,” the youngest man said simply, as if that explained everything, and Denver took his own mask off, listening attentively, which could only be a bad omen. “In heist movies, robbers wear scary masks. They’re zombies, skeletons, the Grim Reaper, I don’t know—”

Andrés’ pistol was drawn, raised and aimed in a single calm breath, right between Río’s surprised and way too innocent eyes. He was so damn _young_ — young enough that he likely had not committed any crime, any _real_ crime, even less fired on a living target.

“With a gun in his hand,” Andrés pointed out, not moving even when he felt Moscú’s hard eyes on him through their masks, “a madman is scarier than a skeleton.”

“Stop it,” commanded the father of the group while his son diverted the attention back on something less problematic, asking “Who is this guy with the mustache?”

The boy’s eyes bored into his and slowly, Andrés lowered the gun, letting the other men discuss children’s cartoons and how to choose the perfect mask for the best dramatic effect. _They_ were young. Río might be the youngest in age, but Denver was still a kid made of impulse and compulsion, hotheaded and irrational at times. 

“What cartoons,” he asked, determined to not let his mind wander to what could go wrong today.

“Goofy, Pluto, Mickey Mouse, all those.”

Río looked like Andrés’ felt, ready to laugh at how stupid Denver sounded. “You’re saying a mouse with ears is scarier?” and with the mask off, the twist of Río's mouth made obvious what he thought of the miner’s son's idea.

“Yeah, _gilipollas_. Want me to smack you upside the head?” Denver replied, clearly annoyed. He ignored his father’s reprimand, instead explaining his reasoning. It was enough to force Andrés to discard his own mask, tiredly running his hand over his face, eyes closed to cut himself from the view of the idiots he was walking into the Mint with. He _knew_ they were good for the job, Sergio and himself made sure of that, but he already missed the cold, steady pace of his more professional robberies. The sound of Denver’s voice still reached him though, and he reluctantly opened his eyes again, praying for the ride to be over soon. “If a guy with a gun goes into a place wearing a Mickey Mouse mask, people will think he’s nuts, that there’s gonna be a bloodbath. Know why? Because weapons and children are two things you never put together. Am I right, Dad?

“If you look at it that way, it’d be more dangerous, more twisted,” Moscú agreed.

Andrés nodded along though he didn’t really see the point of the conversation anymore, but he pondered, almost to himself, “So a Jesus mask would be more frightening. He’s more innocent.” 

The Dalì’s mask stared back at him in all its glorious foolishness, still resting on his lap. With his moronic mustache, it was easy to forget the meaning being the symbol. The mask was there to show the world outside they were part of a whole, to give them a sense of belonging when they would seemingly fight for the ‘Resistance of Spain’, for the people being strangled in debts. The irony of stealing Dalì’s face for this wasn’t lost on Andrés, and he knew Sergio must have thought of the political stance of the painter and his support to the authoritarian regime when he decided on it. His brother was an idealist after all, though Andrés prefered to see in Dalì the genius artist on the brink of insanity, for it was how he felt himself, at the brink of the most audacious heist he ever attempted, if not _planned_.

The van stopping prevented him from continuing on this golden path of thoughts, his very own yellow brick road of forgotten memories. Instead, Andrés dismissed his old hopes and dreams and ordered the members of his team to change in the abandoned farm house they just reached. He followed after them, not turning back to check who drove the van — be it Sergio or Demir, never far from him during these times. It didn’t matter. They had no need of him if his head wasn’t focused on the mission. 

He changed quickly into the red jumpsuit before checking with every team member for their position. Río — Denver at his side — had been tasked with hacking the police cars’ radios, letting them free to access the truck full of blank money paper that entered the Mint every week at the same hour, as precise as a well loved clock. Helsinki and Oslo had already left to block the road ahead and, as Andrés and the women approached the convoy, Moscú informed him the blocus was in place. 

Everything was perfectly coordinated and, as quickly as Sergio had planned it, the truck was theirs for the taking. 

“Tokio,” he asked with mirth in his voice as he watched the police officers cowering in front of his rifle, “don’t you think these gentlemen have pretty uniforms? Kinky as you are, I’m sure you would _love_ to undress them?”

“Come on Berlín! Why does she get to have all the fun?” Nairobi interjected, her gun waving in front of the cuffed men to convince them to walk to the back of the truck with more enthusiasm in their steps, “I can do it too.”

Tokio laughed with unabashed pleasure, fluttering her eyelashes at their prisoners. “I’ll be gentle,” she snarked and it wasn’t long before she came out of the vehicle with two uniforms. Denver and himself quickly changed to masquerade cops for the rest of the first phase. The clothes they scavenged from the two discarded officers were an almost perfect fit and Andrés smiled at his reflection in one of the car’s windows. He walked back toward Denver who had the other officers and workers shaking faintly with a well aimed weapon in their direction. 

“This is how we’re going to work,” Andrés said, mechanically reaching up to adjust the fit of the collar cutting into his skin, “you're gonna drive with a gun aimed at your kidneys. So, when you get a call asking if everything’s all right, you’ll answer calmly, as if everything were normal.” A discreet gesture of his right hand spurned Denver into action and one of the men was taken away, diverting the attention of those still waiting but one. Andrés stared back at the man in question, ruthless even when he asked with cheer, “Is that clear?” 

The gendarme nodded back almost absently, probably ready to agree with anything he said if it meant getting out of this situation alive— not that they risked anything at his hands so far, not with how important it was for Sergio’s plan that everyone stayed alive and well, but they didn’t need to know that. It wouldn’t stop him from having his fun though.

“What’s your name,” he asked the shaking man, every moment in Andrés’ presence making him twinge with stress, his breath short and shallow.

“Javi.”

“Well, _Javi_ , we’re going for a drive. Lead the way,” he ordered, and if he took pleasure in pressing the gun against the lower knot of the man’s spine, no one needed to know. The car was waiting for them and with the threat of bleeding slowly to death, the policeman didn’t try anything stupid. “Now you know what to do,” he quipped, left hand pushing the head of the pistol against the man’s back, careful of the angle so they wouldn’t get spotted easily once they would be in hostile territory. 

His attention was grabbed by the purring of the sport car Tokio drove up to his window.

“Don’t take your eyes off the girl. There can’t be any mistakes, all right?”

“She’s seventeen. I think I can handle her,” Tokio replied with self assurance before driving past him, Nairobi waving at him like she was a starlette from one of the tv show she loved to talk about, and he had to stop himself from commenting on it via the microphone.

The high-tech material in his ear assured him everything was in order when the car he requisitioned finally drove near the entrance of the Mint. Tokio’s voice in the earplug was the first he heard after long minutes of silence, confirming their target was inside. He pressed the gun against Javi’s kidney once more, reminding him to be careful about what he would choose to do as they entered the building, turning his head away from the security guard stopping them.

“How are you, Javi? Where’s Rafita?”

“Shift change,” the man driving said feebly, nerves making his answer short and uncharacteristic of the banter people who see each other every week on such numbing task usually exchange. Andrés faked a noisy sneeze, soon followed by dry coughing, his face still resolutely turned toward the window. Shoulders squared, mouth set and knuckles white, he rearranged his grip on his gun, ready to jump into action. He hoped it wouldn’t have to come down to it though, and if there was one thing Andrés knew, it was how to seem less suspicious by attracting attention on himself— after all, no one would think someone having a coughing fit was trying to lay low. It was a mistake on most people part though. He still remembered how nurses and social workers had diverted their gazes from Sergio’s failing body, how being sick had been seen as a weakness, how it had made people uneasy and as such, Andrés knew faking illness was a special card to play for anyone wanting to be invisible. Without much surprise, they were allowed inside, the security guard not interested in spending more time talking with them if the only anomaly was a shift in workers because some kind of flu was going around. 

The speaker came to life with Río’s static voice crackling in his ear, “Berlín, the first camera is on your left!” and Andrés carefully changed the angle of his face to avoid being caught on tape until the next thing he heard was “Alarms disengaged!” 

They all knew what it meant.

The weapon was warm in Andrés’ hand when he finally left the car to point it at a guard, radiating menace as he ordered “Freeze!” in tandem with Denver. Everyone startled in alarm, and from that point everything went terribly fast, loud screams erupting from several part of the building, confirming the girls entered the Mint in time to force the rest of the sheeps toward the hall they selected to count the hostages. 

“We have a problem!” Tokio shouted, her voice higher than normal due to the tendril of worry he could detect. “I don’t see little lamb.”

There was no time to fully take this information in right now, and Andrés motionned for Denver to keep the hostages together and take the lead while he went through the last preparations alone. His bag of personal effects he snagged during their entrance accompanied him in his search for a few minutes of solitude. He entered the first empty room he found, ignoring the papers scattered everywhere to focus instead on changing clothes for the last time. He took a minute to enjoy the way the dark blue clothes fitted him, finding irony in how good he looked in the uniform of the men he learnt to avoid early in life. The dramatic and screaming red jumpsuit was quickly thrown on his back again, the zipper loud in the near silence of the Mint, now that the situation was apparently under control. 

Zestfully, Andrés grabbed for the little pouch where his precious cufflinks were hidden. They found their way in one of the front pocket of the clothes he wore and with a quick swipe of his fingers over their reassuring weight, he knew he could find the emotional distance he would need for the next few days, whenever he would need it. Demir had never been someone chatty but he always talked about the risks of emotions clouding his judgement, often after Andrés had allowed himself to lose sight of a mission’s objective to improvise something more ostentatious. It was one of his flaw, he knew— he loved going with the flow of a heist. The unpredictability was an important part of the charm of his job but there was no place for art in this particular plan. If everything went as planned in the next few hours, the Mint would be theirs, and the police would be playing with Sergio a game of chess they had no chance of winning, rigged as the match was. 

He walked back toward the museum’s hall, mask off, ready to deliver his best performance now that almost everyone had been collected and gathered in the same place, shaking with fear and worry, uncertain of their fate. After a little sign of hand meant for Río so he would start collecting phones, PIN code and other devices susceptible to endanger them, Andrés spoke up.

“First of all… good morning.” His voice alone was enough for the crowd to fall mostly silent, if one ignored the few people weeping, and the observation made him smile with anticipation. “I’m the one in charge. And first off, I want to offer my apologies,” Andrés said, perfectly pleasant. His hands trailed the shoulder of one of the hostage and his small touch was enough to make the poor soul flinch back. He stayed relaxed and at ease, basking in the terror he could smell around him, talking as if he was having a casual chat with his improvised court. “This really isn’t a good way to end your week,” he pondered, observing them with a calculating gaze, voice becoming firmer when he looked over the trembling form of the Mint’s director. “But you’re here as hostages. If you obey, I guarantee you’ll leave alive.”

A door slid open in his peripheral vision and Andrés recognized their precious little lamb, who was being dragged into the room with another teen her own age by Tokio. The teenager tried to look stoic, but with the soft mask covering her eyes, the prickle of fear taking hold of her body was easy to admire— it was in the way one of her foot couldn’t stop stomping nervously against the ground, in the way her fingers danced against her tight in a rhythm that spoke of her stress, and Andrés thought ‘ _good_ ’. 

Near their precious target, an older woman cried, gulped for breath, hands coming protectively near her pregnant stomach. And there it was, life ; fragile and precious, developing right in front of their eyes. He touched the future mother’s face briefly to make his presence known, hushing her softly as his hands dropped to her stomach, the movement cutting off immediately the helpless whimpers she had been making. 

“Calm down, shh. How far along are you?” he murmured, trying to sound soothing despite the situation.

“E—Eight months.”

“Eight months,” he echoed back at her, palming her stomach until he felt it, the little bundle of life she was carrying, kicking forcefully against his hand. “A boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know, we— my husband and me,” she had to catch her breath there, tears trying to choke her again and he whispered soft words meant to calm her though he knew there was nothing to do, not when he was the source of her distress. “We didn’t want to know before the hospital and— and now—”

“Shh, you need to stay calm. It won’t be good for you or the baby otherwise. This life is precious, unborn and innocent, I’ll take care of you duri—” Denver’s laugh cut him off, reminding him he was supposed to have control over everyone here, not only of the hostages but of every soul in this building, childish teammates included. 

And this moment was supposed to be his coronation as leader of this heist, as king of the cards castle, ready to collapse at the first trembling mistake he could make. 

“All of you are our way out of here,” Andrés continued for the room, talking loudly to be heard over the worried roar of the group, “so I’m going to protect you.”

A pretty woman with long brown hair was crying on his left, tension etched in all her body and he had no trouble naming the emotion shaking her: panic. 

“Hey,” he whispered in her direction, and it was heady the power he hold, every ears trying to focus on his voice, a beacon in the dark that had been forced upon them. “Give me your hands. Let go.” He took her small hands into his, smiling at the irony of being both terrorist and potential savior, and Andrés remarked she was petite and pretty— just the kind of woman he could have gone for _before_ , when he still had opportunities, a future, a life. When he had been human, and not just a cocktail of medicines and death. His own stillness was a startling contrast to her breathtaking fear, and it was fitting, for her panic meant she was alive, she had prospects and hopes— all the things she feared would be torn away from her. All the things he wouldn’t feel again, but that he was intent on recapturing, just a bit, through her. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Ariadna,” she said with shortness of breath and trembling lips. 

He smiled wider. How fitting, for such a beautiful creature, to be named after the famous Cretan princess. Sometimes seen in myth as the goddess of mazes, paths, passion and forgiveness, sometimes as a mortal woman, Andrés knew no one had ever be certain if the renowned Ariadna was mortal or divine. Before him, her namesake was very much mortal. She must feel lost, here, without a golden thread to follow and tell her where to go, blind and deaf in the labyrinth that the next few days would be for her. 

“Ariadna. Come with me. Come.”

He made her step out of the group with him, ignoring how restless everyone around them were being. 

“Calm down. Feel my hands,” he softly ordered, sealing their palms together. 

Sometimes the universe didn’t play kind, didn’t play _fair_. He knew this, like he knew he was nothing but a ticking bomb, ready to go off and take everyone around him. It wasn’t all he was, not here in the Mint, where he would leave a definitive print in the mark of history, in the minds of everyone he might come across and talk to, starting today. He didn’t have to be seen as a villain, more Minotaur than Theseus— no, if they obeyed he would be the Athenian hero; and if they didn’t— well, nothing would stop his brother’s plan, not even himself.

“Are these the hands of a monster?”

“N—No,” she stuttered and he came closer to whisper with conviction his next words.

“Because I’m not a monster.” 

He wasn’t. Even if he would do whatever had to be done to ensure the success of this mission, he would _not_ be a monster— a soldier at most. He knew the real monsters, more beast than men, the one who lurked in people’s hearts or in Life’s cruel twisted fate— he could be a savior here, in a lopsided way. Why would he stop at being seen as a terrifying thief when he could be a compassionate one. And he knew that pretty girl’s pain. More intimately than most would guess. He could _help_ , even if she wouldn’t care for it. He would make a point of showing he had mercy, that he could caress their head gently if they went with the flow and followed their orders, instead of harshly beating their disobedient hands.

“I know exactly how you feel. Dry mouth, shortness of breath… You have to try to calm down and breathe.” She wheezed, more panicked than before and his voice became calmer in turn, remembering how it felt to suffocate and in need of a soothing presence. “Breathe. Breathe.” When he touched lightly her shoulder and she didn’t startle, the victory he felt at his little trick curled around his lips in an untamed smile. “That’s it.” Louder, he said, “Please breathe with me, all of you. Easy, easy.” 

In a way, it was amusing to see all these people dancing to his tune, to have control again— the same control that had been ripped from him, control over life and death. This place was where he would take control again: everything was planned perfectly, every minute of every day that would tickle by had been calculated. No place for wondering, or panicking. Only proficiency.

“Take control of your breathing. Breathe out.” He murmured to the woman again, Ariadna. “That’s it,” he said, caressing her soft hair, a gesture of comfort, though he didn’t know if it was more for the show he was putting than for his own pleasure. He didn’t have time to figure it out, the phone ringing and stopping his gesture. “Miss Mónica Gaztambide, _por favore_?” Silence answered him though he detected movement in the periphery of his vision. 

“Miss,” he asked with steal in his voice, turning toward the curly head of the woman he remembered from his files, “Mónica Gaztambide, would you be so kind as to step forward?” 

She followed his order, squeaking “That’s me!” and he was about to take her away to gain them more time for the second part of the plan when he heard Denver swear and Tokio shushing him. He wetted his lips with his tongue, eyes darting away from the tight blonde curls as he worked through the next words he would say.

“Tokio. Denver. Care to tell me what is happening,” Andrés requested, slowly, glowering, “or do I need to take the information from you in a way you _won’t_ like?”

Tokio raised an eyebrow, not really impressed, but she didn’t challenge him and this, more than their whispering, was cause for alarm. Predictably, when she opened her mouth, he didn’t like one bit what came out of it. 

“Someone is still missing.”

“Who is missing?” he asked.

“I _swear_ ,” babbled Denver, walking up to him with the detailed list of every person supposed to be working in the building in this very nice friday, “we looked everywhere, the guy is a fucking ghost, if he’s here at all, and maybe he’s just sick and we—”

“The _name_ , Denver.”

It was Tokio who answered, “Jesus Clayderman,” and he wouldn’t have thought anything of it if not for the sharp intake of breath the name provoked in the woman named Mónica. This Jesus had been a new addition to the workers of the Mint, barely important enough for him to remember his job description. He knew though, that the missing man worked with the machines ; and he knew that the cute glorified secretary that, if his intel was right, always hung on the arm of Director Roman, apparently had interesting informations.

“Well Miss Gaztambide, are you worried for you coworker?” he asked, and she shook her head anxiously.

“N—No, I didn’t see him today.”

“Really? You sound afraid for you friend, but nothing will happen to him if we find him quickly.” He glanced at the man behind her that looked ready to either pee his expensive pants or blindly pounce on him, and added “Or maybe _boyfriend_ is more appropriate?”

It didn’t miss, though not in the way Andrés had anticipated. The lover laughed, harsh and fast and dry, something full of contempt causing the blonde woman to frown unhappily under her mask. He would have asked about it, curious of the drama unfolding there, if Denver hadn’t leaped on the man to shake him into submission.

“ _Arturito_ ,” the younger man cackled, “you shouldn’t try to look smart now. Where is this Jesus?”

“Arturo, pleas—”

“Clayderman was here this morning. I don’t know where that rat is hiding but there is a small safe in my office, I can take you th—”

Good. Great. Fucking fantastic. The game of hide and seek was apparently too complicated for the children, and _Andrés_ had to do everything himself if he wanted it done well. He ignored the man snivelling for attention, focusing instead on the members of his team.

“Tokio. Denver. Get everyone’s here ready.” He caught Oslo and Helsinkis’ eyes with a movement of his head, and ordered them to follow him away from the hostages. “Helsinki, go secure the tunnels and print. The man works down there and he might be hiding in someplace familiar.” Once the first serbian nodded, Andrés turned to the second. “Oslo, comb through this floor, I don’t want a single bathroom ignored. I’m taking the stairs.”

The crimson velvet runner almost caught his feet when he climbed the steps two at a time but Andrés didn’t slow down, eager to find the lost lamb and take him back into the flock. He passed opulent curtains and paintings ostentatiously decorating the walls of this part of the building, everything gleaming in a show of power. He searched the left wing first but when nothing seemed out of place, Andrés’ patience started to run thin. Walking along the hall balcony again, he could see from his vantage point the hostages being instructed by Tokio to keep quiet until he returned and the agitation he could see brewing wasn’t a good sign. She lacked authority and, almost alone in the middle of forty or so people, Andrés could only see a hundred angles of attack that could cost them precious time. 

He didn’t regret leaving his post of command when, exploring the second room of the right wing, steps running away from his current position were heard. Reactivity was key during a heist, and Andrés never lacked any— a quick glance further along the corridor betrayed the man’s hiding spot, the door of the room he just ventured in not completely shut yet. Gun in hand, Andrés stepped up to the gold designs on the door handle and closed his left hand around it, careful when he pushed inside what probably was the Director office. 

High-end modern furnitures were ignored in favor of the dark, moody, gold veined mirror that took most of the space on the wall directly facing the door he just closed. The beaded accents adorning the mirror’s frame made it both a functional and artistic piece that Andrés felt compelled to get closer to. He would have admired the delicate work of art if a pair of choking blue eyes reflected in the glass hadn’t frozen him in place, a threat to his sanity. 

He recognized, in a vague sort of way, that his brain was playing tricks on him again, even if his body didn’t seem to care much for the reality of the vision, with the way his breath stuttered and his heart galloped wildly in his chest. As careful as he had been with the dosage of his medicine this morning, Andrés was aware that adding stress to the cocktail of chemicals fighting inside him was just the perfect recipe for some fresh new form of torment conjured by his lovesick heart. 

_‘I will not think of_ _him,’_ he had vowed, and he hadn’t. _His_ name never crossed Andrés’ mind, never stumbled on his lips, but _everything_ else pursued him. Some nights, it was easier ; others it felt like his senses were thrown into disarray, whispers of _his_ smell hacking his memory, murmurs of _his_ touch light against his cheeks— and it was just the same now. Andrés fixed the ghost in the mirror, almost entirely disconnected from what it meant for his breaking mind, the deep old hunger collapsing inside his chest at how much he had missed seeing _his_ eyes. 

_Then_ , _he spoke._

“Did you miss me?” his friend said cheekily, and Andrés was so startled for a moment he almost didn’t register the touch of vulnerability in the illusion’s voice. 

The craving consumed him and Andrés turned back slowly, ready to be met with thin air, but he almost crumbled when he blinked and the hallucination, impossibly, didn’t vanish. Despite the outraged cry of his treacherous heart, his eyes assessed the man before him, unbelieving. There was no doubt, though: cerulean eyes were watching him warily and the strange bubble Andrés had been living in suddenly popped.

_Martín was here._

It was real. 

The violent anger that rose within him almost burnt Andrés down to charcoal, crushing any feeling of joy he might have felt because _Martín shouldn’t be here._ It had never been the plan. It was so far from the plan that Andrés didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry from nerves. He had done everything he could think of to make Martín understand this— this _thing_ between them was going nowhere, that they couldn’t be, ever, anything else again. Not even friends. All for nothing. Five months ago, he had ripped Martín’s beautiful beating heart from his chest and crushed it on the floor of the monastery, along his own, because Martín was meant to stay alive— _all for nothing_. 

Andrés tried to focus on the sound of his own breathing and not on the thought running in his head, wild and miserable, the same that he had carried with him when he left Italy behind. _Better hurt than dead_. But in matters of life and death, the choice was being taken away from him once again. 

“Martín?”

Was he allowed to cross the room, Andrés wondered, to shove the other man against a wall and punch him for standing in front of him, here, where he was never meant to be? Was he allowed to reach out and graze his fingertips over the bridge of Martín’s strong nose, or crumple on the floor before him with how solid and _real_ he finally felt? At which point would his exceptionally capricious brain stop focusing on the sharp blue eyes judging him silently, even as Andrés came within arm’s reach? 

He pointedly looked for the changes five months brought in Martín, pistol still raised and aimed at his chest as if he was a threat — and he was. Andrés had stopped lying to himself and it meant acknowledging how dangerous Martín could be. Through the coppery taste of blood suffocating him, impossible to ignore after biting his own tongue to feel something true, he noticed the clothes Martín wore, comically garish and perfectly tactless. It wasn’t the worst of the transformation, far from it. What cemented the fact that he wasn’t dreaming, _not this time_ , was the atrocious, disgusting, ridiculous looking mustache caressing the upper lip of the man he, once upon a time, kissed. Andrés was convinced it was utterly impossible for his brain to come up with something so disgracious, and as such, it was the only thing convincing him of the reality of what was happening.

All the emotions raging behind his empty façade screeched to a halt, long enough for Andrés to cringe “Was the hairy caterpillar that crawled up your face to die really necessary?”


	5. Heist D-Day, 11:30AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the words of support so far. Cassy did an amazing job getting the action of the heist going. Now! Let’s have a little reunion, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: all potential triggers from this point will be posted in the notes at the beginning of the chapter. If you feel like we missed one/any, please update us and we will add it. 
> 
> In chapter 5, there is Homophobic language/a homophobic slur in Spanish at the end of the chapter.

Time was of the essence, Martín knew, each second more precious and strenuous than the last. His surroundings blurred, the terrified screams of hostages being gathered, loud cracks of guns he knew were being shot into the air, blended with others he did not easily recognize. He’d prepared adequately, each step down to the small boiler room he could hide himself away in until he could reveal his presence on his own terms. He knew better than to confront Andrés among the masses, where he served a threat to his control over the hostage and the respect of his comrades. Those left behind near the prints were swept up in the frenzy of the heist, running frantically and paying no attention to his strides in another direction. They had yet to make their way near him, but it would only be a few moments more until they were gathered. 

Compared to other hiding areas he had spent insufferable amounts of time in, this was a new low. The heat stemming from the large pipes filled the room, powering the entirety of the Mint with warmth on this cold October day. In all his preparations for the heist, the weather outside had not demanded the unbearable heat. Sweat prickled his brow, the curve of his lip, and the back of his neck. He regretted the extent of his disguise, telling himself it was the combination of it with the steam leaving his heart racing beyond his control. The wild pounding inside his chest would surely betray his position, between the sound alone or the ability to knock him back against one of the pipes. 

And in a moment, just as it had all had begun, an uneasy silence fell like a heavy cloud throughout the Mint. He knew better than to trust it, knowing there were layers to every plan and the first sixty minutes were of the utmost importance. The sound of a pen hitting the floor would call attention to him if he were not mindful of each step, and the heavy breath saddled in his chest would do the job just as well.

“ _Breathe_ ,” he reminded himself, pulling the collar of his shirt away from the middle of his neck. He, just as every member of the band Sergio had pieced together, had a job to do. The reckless nerves coursing through his veins were traitorous reminders of a life left behind in Italy. Every step, his every decision, was calculated and carefully preexamined. Andrés would see the reason his brother had not for more professional criminals, despite his anger. 

He tried not to laugh at his own naivety. Now, here, alone in this room that functionally served as a closest more than anything else, he recognized exactly what Demir warned of. Each consideration was blinded by sentiment, propelled by pain and confirmations Tatiana provided. It was too late for him to contemplate regrets, to let go of the illusions he’d held onto for months now. He had no other option than for this to go exactly the way he planned. Andrés was volatile, driven by ethics and principles like a hound chasing the scent of fresh blood. But, he was not so unreasonable to miss what Martín’s knowledge and short spanned experience could provide. The tattered years of friendship should be enough— if carefully evoked, _would_ be enough. 

Or knight taking rook would be the end of it all.  
  
Hiding accomplished nothing now, since he had already managed to go by undetected. The heavy footsteps storming through the basement had passed by the boiler room, just as he anticipated. Renewed determination fueled him as his hand curled around the door handle, pushing it open slowly just to make sure his senses had not betrayed him. The sound of the printer could no longer be heard, the eerie quiet missing the movement of people and lazy conversations to mark the start of the last work day before the weekend. Understandably, they would have moved all the hostages to the opening of the museum, which made his path to the Director’s office clear if he kept to the employees only walkway. Despite his heavy hesitance only moments ago, his legs moved forward normally. He crept behind corners, taking his time to make his way back upstairs. The ultimate goal was to come off as though he were on the run from the robbers, an ordinary frightened hostage amongst the rest. Lucky for him, he undeniably knew Andrés’ intolerance for mistakes and would elect himself part of the team to take part in the game of hide-and-seek. The game didn’t need to be dragged out longer than necessary, only enough to buy him time to get to the room and hope Andrés found him first.  
  
The barely perceivable sound of approaching footsteps coming from the other end of the hall, each with the divine skill of a hunter, spoke of everything going exactly how he had planned. Exhilaration made the blood pump harder through his chest, coupled with the hard breaths escaping his lips as he broke for a sprint towards the Director’s office. By design, he left the door cracked open compared to the rest, evidently shut and potentially locked. Every performative clue prepared the next step of _his_ plans played out the way he wanted, already serving to give him the upperhand. His back fell against the wall, down far away from the door and shrouded by the tall mahogany file cabinets arranged close to Arturo’s desk.  
  
From the far corner of the mirror on the opposing wall, he could see the door pushed open. He kept his position, frightfully still as light footsteps followed the opening of the door. He closed his eyes tightly, unprepared for the sickening feeling knotted in the pit of his stomach. When Andrés had said his heart wrenching farewells in the poorly lit chapel of _their_ home, he had resigned to letting him go. His traitorous heart bled for the overwhelming love he had felt poured into their kiss, only to be reminded he was not what Andrés desired. He had wept against the wall, when he realized the embrace also brought down the walls of their friendship, Andrés turning his back on him after assuring time would bring them back together again. He had known then, try as he might to refuse to truth whispering to him for months, that it was a pretty lie meant to subdue him. It had taken Tatiana’s visit, coupled with the daunting nightmare imprinted on his heart, to refuse to accept to let it all end the way Andrés wanted. Even in his best of plans, he had not stopped to imagine the other man as more than a concept. But as eyes fluttered open, the stupid shattered pieces of his heart swelled.  
  
Five months had not been kind to him, at no one’s fault other than his own. But Andrés looked as beautiful and powerful as he always did, even with unblinking dark eyes focused on following his trail. Martín had always noted how certain colors were especially radiant on him, fiery reds amongst his favorites. He had not been seen, yet, and could not control the returned yearning possessing his mind. Before, his poor love struck mind could take hold, the rush of unrequited feelings derailing his entire operation, he decisively stood tall. His face could be seen, staring back at him in the mirror Andrés stepped closer too.  
  
The skillful and intrepid man stopped in his spot, the air frozen between them now. His face betrayed the resilience, replaced with something torn between horror and regret. Martín’s own hands twitched at his sides, uncertainty plaguing his mind as he waited for Andrés to recognize he was more than a ghost of his past. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, torn between the immediate reassurance that he was here as an ally versus the last of his own outrage at carelessly being abandoned, also fought with simply letting the other man before him have the first word.  
  
This was more of Andrés than Martín was certain he would ever get to see again. The man had crushed every brightness from his life, removed all the pages of the chapters rightfully titled the best years of his life. Even the few sentimental reminders Martín held onto throughout the years had done little to tranquilize the plaguing terrors, only made worse when he’d lost the most important of them all. Now, with the man standing before him again, it was as if no time had passed at all. If only that were the case. He wanted to reach out, to shake the man with his hysterical anger. He could weep, with uncontrollable relief at just seeing him _alive_ with only meesely inches between them again. Accusations should be shoved in the other man’s face, the betrayal of _that_ night demanding ramifications.  
  
But when Andrés continued to respond as though this were all an illusion, a deadly combination of stress playing off whatever drugs Martín imagined he had to take, he finally released a shaky breath. He took a step forward from the shadows, gaze unable to move from the man he thought he would never see again. He felt the words crack before they even left his mouth, the question meant to break the stillness between them while also one he desperately, _selfishly_ , needed an answer to. “Did you miss me?”  
  
If actions spoke louder than words, then volumes of things Martín didn’t understand could have been written about each twitch of Andrés’ face. Hues of purplish reds flushed his pale features, the twitch of the veins in his forehead gave weight to the first of his emotions. The pairing of Andrés' trembling hands and uneasy breathing severed as a sort of contradiction and definitive proof of his shaken anger. Perhaps the most confusing was the pained look in his eyes, somewhere between sorrow and a longing, a _hunger_ Martín knew from experience he was imagining.  
  
“Martín?”  
  
The gun in his hands never faltered, trained on his chest though his finger secured tighter to the trigger guard. He knew he was a threat, but the motion was enough to prove Andrés still meant him no physical harm. ‘ _So much for surrendering your advantages with the right timing_ ,’ his thoughts scolded as words continued to escape him in response. He was no longer certain if between the two of them he should command the conversation or allow Andrés the control he severely craved. He was being surveyed now, no doubt Andrés’ way of examining the changes bitter time had brought for him, just as Martin had done only moments ago. He waited with easy patience, words still vacant.  
  
Finally, Andrés seemed to accept his presence was more than a figment of his imagination, and his cracked lips peeled apart. “Was the hairy caterpillar that crawled up your face to die really necessary?” The deadpan humor of his comment spoke to the inability to process events unfolding around both of them. He didn’t miss the curve of Andrés’ lips into a scowl afterwards, accompanied with the softening of dark brown eyes looking less the persona of the leader of a heist, and more the friend he knew behind closer quarters.  
  
His thumb and forefinger curled around the rough end of the mustache as he responded only with a humorless chuckle of his own. “Unfortunately, it was a part of my disguise I could not afford to ignore. Listening to Demir go on and on about proper mustache etiquette did often make me want to reconsider.” 

But Andrés seemed to hear none of it. For as well as he used to be able to read every twitch of the other man’s face, time had taken that away from him. He knew better than to think Andrés was truly as sad and broken, and _desperate_ , as he looked. The rush of adrenaline was playing tricks on Martín’s own longing, and he wished he could whisk it away. _It can’t be about that,_ he scolded himself. The stupid, devoted love he felt still festering inside of him couldn’t be ignited again, couldn’t be a distraction. 

“You’re _here_?”  
  
“Yes.”

The gun pressed into the middle of his chest, but hands never wavered. The rough piece of metal being pushed against him was meant to be a threat to his resolve, to crush his mind with panic and make him quickly give in his charades. But from the closer angle now, he could see the safety turned on and Andrés’ fingers still removed from the trigger. If this was what he had to deal with while they reunited, it was a very mild threat to his safety than others he’d endured.  
  
“ _Why_ are you here?” Andrés wheezed, as though the weapon making contact with something stronger than smoke and mirrors finally undeniably solidified the gravity of the situation they found themselves in. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“You’re right. Arturo was never my biggest fan and this is his office—” The gun pressed against his throat now and made his witty comment cut off. Having had enough, he pushed the weapon away from his skin, taking a strong step forward. 

“Stop avoiding the question, Martín. _What_ are you doing _here_?”

Andrés’ sharp cuspids sunk into his bottom lip, the scowl following his words meant to inspire a healthy amount of fear. If he were anyone else, Martin knew, his knees would have been trembling, heart pounding, and palms sweaty. He would be melting into a puddle on the ground as he begged for his life, hands behind his head ready to follow every single command. But, in another life, he had known this man all too well. He didn’t miss the unsteady drops of syllables as he tried his best to be threatening, and therefore would not cower before him now. 

Raising his hands innocently, he offered his best friendly smile. “I’ve only had a glimpse of the team your brother put together, and I can already tell my services could be of use. You need an engineer.” 

For a brief moment, he wondered if Andrés might laugh in agreement, the words from a lifetime ago echoed off his tongue. But, it didn’t take long for the relaxed look on his face to pass, slowly brewing towards something far darker. Martín held his ground, already regretting rushing in so boldly. 

“They were properly trained. They’re prepared for this heist.” 

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Are you trying to convince yourself or me? I picked out the two you sent in to _scout the joint_. He looked _fourteen_.” 

The cracks in the mask he wore, tested and changed to fit the specifics of each job he had to do, flickered like a dying light. In one moment, he saw his friend staring back at him with what could be mistaken for relief, and maybe even _joy_ , at his presence. The next, boiling anger as his face reddened and his mind sorted through the variety of options available to him. Regardless to which he settled on, Martín knew they were in this situation together for the next five or six days. It was best not to get under his skin, not now anyway. 

“Your opinions don’t matter. They will follow the orders I give.” 

“Yes, the best and brightest were chosen for Sergio’s plan. But I’ve worked here for months, I know how the machines operate.” 

“That doesn’t change that you aren’t supposed to be here!” He pushed forward, trying to intimidate him by stepping into his space. Even with Andrés’ face only inches from his, anger carrying his words and spite defined on his face, he simply stood still. 

“It’s too late for me to leave. As I recall, you locked the doors. The least I can do to show my _gratitude_ is be useful.”

“This isn’t a fucking game!” His hand reached out, almost gripping the back of his neck. Before fingers could even brush the hairs standing up there, Andrés ripped away, staggering back to increase the distance between them. . 

“I know it’s not. I’ve worked here for months. I know how things operate here.” Frustration was building up, and he knew they only had a short matter of time until someone else would find their way into the room and interrupt. The lines were undeniably drawn between them: more strangers now than when they had first met. 

“If you knew anything, you would’ve been smart enough to stay away,” he growled. 

Before anything else could be said, a burly man pushed through the door. An automatic machine gun was strapped over his chest, one hand steady on the handgrip and the other kept close to the rifle butt. He recognized a trained soldier when he saw one, and knew any further attempts to continue their conversation were quickly becoming lost to them. Even an unloaded gun in the most trained of hands only took mere seconds before it became a deadly weapon. Everything was being ripped away from him once more as Andrés took a step back, waving his gun to gesture towards the door. 

“Oslo, I’ve found our little sheep. Take him back to the flock.” 

“Come on,” the gruff man ordered, making his way over to grab at Martín’s arm. He ripped it away, refusing to be dragged off so easily. 

“ _Oslo?_ Finally decided to use the stupid city name plan?” The hand wrapped around his shoulder, dragging him forward despite his best attempts. Andrés refused to look at him now, and the disciplined Serbia opted to ignore the clear animosity between them. Martín shrugged off his hand, fighting with what strength he had. “I think I’d prefer to use your name, _And—”_

Deadly rage and dangerous familiarity reflected in his eyes, the gun pointed back at his chest. He breathed heavily, fixated once again on Martín as though he were the only man in the room. The shaky grip on the handgun took Martín by surprise, the cracks in his resolve showing more and more as time went by. He blinked with overwhelming shock, coming to understand his presence was _affecting_ his former friend. 

Deafening silence filled the room, everything motionless around them. The question left his pursed lips with a shallow breath before he could stop himself. “And what name did you pick?” 

He couldn’t have anticipated the frigid shiver down his spine, or the way his heart missed a beat, when the answer came to him. “Berlín.” 

The name took him back to another place, another time when things had yet to become so complicated between them. The malice possessing him, clouding his judgment and controlling the spite he clung to fading into submission as memory claimed him. He let Oslo’s hand take a tight grip on his arm, beginning to move him from the room. He kept his head turned towards Andrés all the same, one last effort made in a final plea. 

“I can follow orders, Berlín. The plan can use me. You know I can be an asset,” he urged. 

“You’re of _no_ use here. If we thought you were a good fit, we would have brought you with us. Now you’re just a _risk._ ” 

The bitter chill claimed every nerve, the cold pain in his chest biting at him. He had come here with a purpose, one slipping through his fingers faster than he had anticipated. There was no denying Demir was right, anymore. He hadn’t thought any of this through, hadn’t taken enough time to truly consider every possibility. He was stupid for thinking it would be so easy, to think he could come back and cross the line back to being so much as just _colleagues._ Andrés was right, after all. It was more than just the shortcomings of the Bank plan that brought his life crumbling to the ground. Now, he was a risk and would be treated accordingly. 

The hostages had been blindfolded, gathered in a small circle a few steps away from the entrance to the Mint. One was thrusted into his hands as he was pushed forward with the tip of Oslo’s gun. He readily obeyed, knowing it did nothing for him to continue to fight against orders. He made his way to where Mónica held her hands tightly around her arms, trying to soothe the fear and pain still evident on her face. Arturo remained on her left, twitching and whispering things to one of the young students on his other side. 

“Tranquilo, Mónica,” he whispered, the words note quite quiet enough to be ignored by Arturo. 

“Where did you think you’d run off to, Clayderman? Hiding like a rat?” 

Martín bit down on the inside of his cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, he willingly placed the mask over his eyes. This was the second step in Sergio’s plans, and one of the last he knew the exact details of. The police would respond to the signaling security alarms, falsely led to believe they caught the robbers in the middle of a heist gone wrong. They would then retreat further into the halls, the real work finally ready to begin. There was beauty in the deception, if it were followed exactly as planned. 

Of course, it would be far too simple to stick to what they had been trained to do. He heard a loud shout from one of the young men as the doors clearly opened far too soon. The sound of screams from his fellow hostages drowned out the sound of gunshots. He should’ve fought the wicked grin he felt spreading across his face, the last of his will to bring the plan crumbling to his knees manifested. He stood quietly amongst the noise, breathing heavily as he considered his options. There had to be something else he could try, anything that would lead him back to the right path. There had to be another way to show Andrés his value, to prove he was of worth to the heist. His resilience could not be so easily broken by cruel words meant to crush his spirits. If he bent so easily, he would have been better off not coming at all. 

The sound of chattering teeth and staggered, anxious breath surrounded him, the first sign the hostages were beginning to realize this was far from over. He stuck his hand out, finding Mónica’s soft, thin wrist despite the blindfold over his eyes. He gave her a friendly squeeze, trying to reassure at least her. Protecting her was a fragile part of his plans for the Mint that were otherwise crumbling to dust, but this was better than nothing. He didn’t need to see Arturo to know the other man was too preoccupied with his own safety to worry about a pregnant lover. 

“ _Joder! Tokio!”_ The distant shouting of one of the male robbers, rightfully pissed at one of his companions for running out too early rose above the sound of doors closing. Somewhere else, someone weeped; he wondered if in their unplanned shootout there had managed to be an injury, or if it were simply nerves overtaking one of the younger members. Regardless, it only served his point of him proving useful to the plan. Sergio’s band of _carefully_ selected, ill-practiced thieves needed someone with more common sense and experience on their shoulders, should they want to make it out of the Royal Mint. 

His shoulders slacked as his thoughts found solid ground, the changes to the execution of his plans secure. His eyelids crunched against the scratchy material of the cheap blindfold. His free hand itched his leg, fighting the urge to rip the ridiculous thing of. The group was still too close for that, all too loud and angry to be tested. 

“That wasn’t the plan!” Another woman yelled, rage cracking her words. 

For whatever reason, Andrés’ voice was glaringly absent from whatever had just happened. With the blindfold over his eyes, he’d missed the view of Berlín descending down the marble staircase, and gunshots had drowned out the potential to hear him. It wasn’t until the previous male voice shouted, accusingly, “ _Berlín!_ What the fuck were you doing?!” that he received confirmation his former friend had missed all the action. Martín didn’t need his sight to see the dark, stormy look brewing in Andrés’ eyes over blame for others' stupidity. Whatever his ominously quiet response was, it was enough to shuffle the robbers away from their spot at the door, rushing past them as they took someone—probably the frightened or injured _toddler,_ the most likely culprit of their early error—past them and up the stairs. Alone in the silence with his fellow hostages, he finally had a chance to think again. The proof he was a necessity, a _professional_ amongst the band of amateurs Sergio selected, was glaringly obvious if Andrés would stop playing blind to it.

It was his doorway in, even if it meant subjecting himself to the orders of one of the idiots in a red jumpsuit instead of Andrés. If he could show his strengths, take the time to prove his words with action, his chances improved with convincing Andrés of his worth. Ten years ago, he had done exactly that and followed the other man around the different corners spanning across Europe. His reputation went so far as to precede him, even in regards to Sergio. If he bowed in submission and kept his mouth wired shut, none of it would be in vain.

Boots clicking on the marble floor was the only sound left behind, but more than enough to alert him to who they had been left with. Even greatly outnumbered, no one would dare to rise up against the two buff Serbians and their training with the assault weapons across their chests. Instead, he only felt the tugging on the sleeve of his shirt as Mónica encouraged him to take a seat next to her. 

“Where did you go?” She whispered.

“I heard the gunshots and ran for cover in the boiler room,” he admitted. “It seems so foolish now to think I could’ve stayed hiding or found a way to call for help.” 

“You’re no hero,” Arturo snarled, cutting into their conversation without as much as a second thought. “They should have shot you and left you to rot.” 

“Then I’m grateful that mercy was shown when I had enough sense to listen to Berlín’s orders. Perhaps I can give you a few tips before you end up the _dead man_ at the end of this horror movie.” He smirked with vicious satisfaction as Arturo shrunk into the shadows at the poetic threat, always as poignant as the first time he’d heard Andrés use it. 

“What do they want? Why didn’t they leave?”

“Best not to speculate, Mónica. Just keep your head down.” His words were his best attempt at an order, hoping the words buzzed down the line and settled into Arturo’s thick skull more than hers. 

They were granted permission to remove the masks from their eyes, the blinding midday sun peaking through the large window at the top of the stairs. They’d sat in silence until Berlín, accompanied by a sharp nosed woman and a man with dark, curly hair following a few steps behind, made their way back to the main room. The large Serbians ordered them all back to their feet, as another solemn man made his way back to join the group. 

“Ladies and gentlemen. We will have the special privilege of spending a few _extra_ days together. As part of our little _familia_ , you will all receive your own jumpsuits. It is best if you quickly put them on. Then, we will separate you in three groups.” 

“Groups? What do you plan on doing to us then?” Arturo choked, enough to make Martín’s skin crawl in frustration at his hoarse voice. The man was incapable of keeping his mouth wired shut, and he’d do anything to be able to do the job himself. So long as Andrés had another thorn in his side to deal with, there was very little Martín could do that wouldn’t enrage him more. 

“Arturito,” the younger man behind Andrés laughed with the kind of chortle capable of breaking delicate glass. He shoved the bag of red jumpsuits he carried into the arms of one of the Serbians, making his way forward down the line. From the inside of his jumpsuit, he reached in and pulled out a black pistol. Turning the handle towards the trembling weasel of a man, he commanded, “take the pistol.” 

Arturo covered his face behind his hands, sniveling as he lowered himself in front of the young man. “No, por favor señor,” he wailed. Martín’s eyes unwittingly wandered to observe Andrés’ reaction. His arms were held behind his back, a stoic look revealing enough for Martín to piece things together. They would, naturally, need to blend in with their captors in order to avoid unwanted break ins by the police. He turned his head back in just enough time to see Arturo desperately pulling the trigger of his gun, the young man pointing one of his own at the man’s empty head. 

Martín shuddered when the robber laughed again over the sound of blanks clicking from the barrel of Arturo’s plastic gun. “Excelente, Arturito.” 

“You all will assist us in a few hours, and throughout our days here. You will be granted time to eat and sleep in shifts, granted there are no more displays of bravery or disobedience. Obey, and you will be cared for,” Andrés said, low and calm as he walked down the line. Not even for a second did his eyes glance over Martín, the numbing cold accompanying the action once again. 

“Now, the best part,” the woman started with a proud smirk making the sparkle in her eyes dance with excitement. “We are getting to work.” She paused as she glanced down at the yellow list in her hand, walking down the line with one of the Serbians and the older, quieter man behind her. “With me: Torres, Sanchez, Blaas, Biezma, Clayderman, Lenon, Watsani, and Hernandez.” 

A red jumpsuit shoved in his hands was enough to ground Martín instead of involuntarily releasing a loud sigh of relief. Things are falling back into place, if his assumptions were correct. The woman would, most likely, be tasked with the lead over the printers. Before Andrés had known who _Clayderman_ truly was, he and Sergio had assigned him to the task most suitable to his specific skills. It was the incredible strike of shiny luck his plans needed. 

Of course, nothing was ever as easy when it came to Arturo. The man stubbornly dropped his jumpsuit to the floor when his name was called by the elderly Spaniard, arms crossed firmly over his chest as he huffed. His face contorted from the displeasure of the arrangements, already moving on from any lesson he might have learned from the demonstration only moments ago. He knew, undoubtedly, his boss was not the looming hazard to Sergio’s plan he and Andrés had found in the former Boinas Verdes officer employed at the Bank of Spain—but even the most unsophisticated complication could bring everything tumbling to the ground if fear failed to replace stupidity. 

He watched as one of the bigger men shoved the jumpsuit back against Arturo’s chest, before thick fingers drummed the weapon strapped across his chest. “I’ll happily dress you, if needed.” Martín bit down on his bottom lip, careful not to gleefully giggle like a child as Arturo coiled under the flirtatious offer. It was at least a start in the right direction, and one far too entertaining to see. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he heard Arturo croak, undoing the tie from around his neck. 

“You can help me with mine, _gordito._ ” Swept up in the humor of the situation, Martín’s words left his tongue before he even had a moment to register the thought. The sound of his voice dropped an octave, sounding foreign even as he accepted he had in fact said them. The pink flush in the Serbian’s pale cheeks, partially covered by the Orthodox beard made him smirk all the same, finding no fault of his own as he pulled up the legs of his costume.

The second list was read, from the man he heard Andrés refer to as _Denver_. “With me, to the tunnels,” the younger man said, procuring his own list. “Garcia, Roman, Pérez, Álvarez, Vázquez, Ortega, Iglesias, and Morales.” 

“Of course, the _muerdealmohadas_ is assigned to the printers when the rest of us young _men_ are to be sent to your tunnels.” 

Unsurprisingly, Arturo was still incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Martín should have known an insult would be directed his way the moment the Director’s name was read amongst the list of others tasked to do the more grueling work. Only, nothing could have stopped the way his hand reached out and wrapped around the collar of the other man’s jumpsuit. He didn’t have to take this. He _wouldn’t._

And when his fist collided with the other man’s jaw, who landed flat on his ass for all to see, his outrage was left satisfied. He tried to ignore Mónica’s gasp or the way he could hear Sergio’s gang swiftly moving behind him. One of the strong men pulled his arms behind his back, and he struggled to get away. Watching Arturo rub his face, eyes lit up in surprise with his ability to fight back, only left him craving more. “Not so bold now, are you Arturo? Not now that I’ve knocked you down, _hijo de puta_.” He squirmed again as he was pulled further away from the man. “Have anything else you’d like to say about me?” 

Andrés’ voice commanded the rest of the room, but Martín didn’t register what he was saying as he made his way between the two of them. There wouldn’t be another opportunity to strike at Arturo now, and finally he stopped fighting against Oslo. Something akin to a wicked smile was on his former friend’s face, making his heart drop to his stomach. “Since you seem to have a fixation on what _Clayderman_ does for our team, I’ll put you both together. Play nicely,” Andrés said, turning towards him. “Oslo, take our little sheep to the tunnel. I think we’ve found him a home at last.” 


	6. Heist D-Day: 3:45PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone~ 
> 
> Last update, Myra left most of you rightfully mad at Andrés after his little stunt with Martín. Before we get deeper into it, I hope you'll enjoy the first berlermo flashback TOS has to offer— and yes some of you did guess it was coming, good work little detectives ;)
> 
> Cassy x

The clouds were the heavy, frothy kind, beautiful yet menacing. The sky had been clear when Andrés left his unassuming hotel room in east Berlin, but as hours passed and his mood soured the weather followed suit. 

At first, he hadn't thought much of Alessio asking him to change the place of exchange only a few hours before their deal had to be struck, not when their client — an eccentric woman working for one of the biggest fortunes in Europe — was known for being extremely jumpy and anxious. She had reasons to be when the forty-three natural ‘five C’s’ stolen diamonds, the talk of every news channel in Europe since their disappearance, were the motive of their meeting. It had been a risky and lucrative business to get his hands on the precious stones, a few of them now resting in his pocket as a sample, their exceptional quality and value prompting a heavy security in the Italian jewelry store they came from. 

And Alessio _had been_ a precious help thanks to one of his contacts who worked as a security guard for more than nine months in said store, in preparation for the heist. It had allowed them to do a quick and clean job. Yes, Alessio _had been_ a prized help, up to the burning point when it had been time to go their separate ways. 

They had fought about who got to keep the diamonds safe until the time of the transaction: a dirty fight that had dragged his ex-wife Maria’s name into the open, hinting at an affair running between them while they still had been married. It had solidified Andrés’ desire to keep the stones and he had won the argument in the end, since only he knew someone who might be interested in investing quickly and under the table for their precious loot. Still, doubt had been growing about their partnership since then and when he entered the Soho House Berlin, one of the most luxurious hotels in _Mitte_ , Andrés knew he had been rightfully worried. 

Tucked in the middle of the lobby, distracting him from the beautifully decorated walls and pillars, iron spiral staircase and plush low-slung modern sofas artfully arranged, undercover cops swarmed the place. If the print of handcuffs in the back pocket of a badly tailored suit pant hadn’t betrayed the first one Andrés spotted, the cheap looking tactical shoes most of the cops wore even in such a lavish setting would have done the job. It didn’t take much more to tip him off, not when he had been careful himself in the selection of his own clothes before entering the rich and selective crowd. The expensive charcoal grey trousers and matching tuxedo jacket he had chosen for himself, the black vest that hugged his body, the white well-fitted dress shirt tucked tightly in to draw attention to his waist, and pearl-silver tie that perfected his look, had helped him disappear in the stream of wealthy businessmen navigating the lobby.

Andrés had left the scene quickly, cutting through the restaurant’s kitchen to avoid being followed by anyone susceptible to take an interest in his person and his prized possession. He had raged as he walked briskly in dirty and smelling alleys, knowing he would have to wait to deal with the treacherous mole, but his chance of making Alessio pay for his backstabbing ways and still come out of the hotel as a free man had been too low to risk it. The fact that his ex-wife — for he _knew_ she was part of this — must have been waiting gleefully to see him fall into this trap only furthered his intentions to raise hell on the probable lovers.

That was how he found himself crossing a deserted _Engelbecken park_ , his hands twitching restlessly to dispel the frustration pooling in his body. It was the perfect location for Berliners to drink and relax, a little corner of greenish peacefulness in the middle of a damp, grey city, but Andrés couldn’t find solace in its shy beauty, not when he prefered the quaint picturesque charm of Italy where he loved to spend his time. There was something disconnected about Berlin, something cold and hard and self centered, something that demanded to always act as if others didn’t matter to survive in this city, that both appealed to and repelled Andrés. 

It permeated almost everything, which might explain why the agitated man speaking noisily on the phone just a few meters away felt so out of place, lively and loud with his wide hand gestures and heavily accented English that hinted at their common background as foreigners. Andrés didn’t get to have a good look at the only other living soul haunting the park, not with his back facing him, a worn looking wallet almost spilling out of the back pocket of a pair of loose midnight blue jeans. The brown leather jacket the man wore did nothing to protect the valuable item and Andrés’ fingers twitched again at the tempting view. It wasn't the best outlook, an empty park with only him as the possible thief, no cover, and — most of all — the object of his longing snuggly pressed against the man’s arse. 

The thing was, Andrés _needed_ to do something with himself, nervous energy from his almost run in with the police agitating him, daring him to provoke a fight if needed. As bad as the odds were, Andrés took off his suit jacket, throwing it over his forearm before brushing past his victim, deft fingers pickpocketing the wallet and hiding it in the folds of his vest. The man didn't react, too busy talking about obscure mathematical formulas to pay much attention to his surroundings and Andrés smiled, comforted by the familiar gesture. He kept his strolling pace as not to attract attention to himself, self-satisfied and secure in the success of his petty larceny.

The hand bruising his right wrist, stopping and twisting him back, undid his beliefs.

“ _Hijo de mil put_ —” started the man but he stopped mid insult, startling blue eyes blinking at him as they surveyed his expensive clothes, like they had never seen a gentleman thief before in their life. 

“¿Puedo ayudarte?” Andrés asked, enjoying a bit too much the way the grip on his wrist went slack for a second, probably from shock at hearing his mother tongue in the middle of Berlin. It was just enough for him to shake the stranger off. “Are you lost? I'm sorry I can't do much for you, I'm only here for business and, to be honest, I’m running quite late.”

“Don't even try me _conchuda_!” The rustle of the autumnal leaves being crushed under the feet of the Argentinian man accompanied the invasion of Andrés’ privacy bubble, though he held his ground, not really impressed by the tentative intimidation. “Give it back.”

“You must be mistaken,” he frowned, fake confusion dripping out of him as he took a calculated step back to appear fearful, but his lie only prompted a faint growl from the back of the stranger’s throat.

“Just admit you did a lousy job and give me my wallet back,” he was asked again. “Or are you a sore loser, doubled with an untalented thief?” 

Andrés refrained from any commentary but he felt his face split into an arrogant and mocking grin, the last of his subtlety flying out of the window. There were time like this where he wanted to burst through the veneer of civilisation that he wrapped himself in ; time where he _needed_ to feel bruised and battered, mud-splattered by the physicality of a fight ; time where he _craved_ the adrenaline that settled his frailed soul — the gaping hole in the middle of himself that couldn’t be filled, that screamed for quenching and only found consolation when Andrés endangered himself and came out victorious. 

His blood sang in anticipation when the man’s hands pushed him back strongly. He staggered, the perfect excuse to start a fight. But it wasn’t enough. He wouldn’t give the first punch, not when he could provoke a stronger reaction from his target and make it all the sweeter when he would throw him off and finally answer back. 

“I’m sorry, but with how shabby you look, I really don’t see what value anything you might possess could have in my eyes,” he mocked, the fingers still holding onto the wallet he stole, carefully hidden under his vest. He caressed the exhausted leather that seemed well-loved to the touch, at least if the cracks of use were to be believed. 

Instead of the sharp displeasure and the violent reaction he had hoped for at the insult, the stranger’s face morphed into something almost gleeful that stopped Andrés’ smugness like a freight train screaming off the rails. It was something intimately familiar he just glimpsed, something close to the feeling Andrés had experienced just minutes before, ready for the fight to come. Nevertheless, the shock he felt when the Argentinian man slowly, _theatrically_ , took a step back and dangled between his fingers the pouch containing his precious diamonds was not one Andrés was used to feeling. 

“Maybe I do have something of value after all, eh, _pelotudo_?” 

Andrés didn’t gape incredulously, he wouldn’t be so obvious after all, but the twitch of his eyebrows and furious clench of his jaw expressed the same emotion despite himself. His free hand automatically went to his pant pocket where he _knew_ the diamonds had been, where he could _still_ feel their weight; but when he went and checked its content, he fetched instead a pack of Maltesers.

“When—” he started, disbelieving that someone could have deft enough fingers to steal from _him_ when he was alert, but the man cut him off by checking the pouch, his face going slack from stupefaction when diamonds of perfect colour, cut, and clarity hit the palm of his hands.

“ _Maybe_ I should just keep this instead, eh?” the man snorted, though he carefully put the expensive stones back in their bag. 

The delivery of that sentence, cocky and insolent, unexpectedly unknotted the tension that had been clawing at Andrés’ body since the failed sale and following escape. He should be incandescent with rage, he knew. He should be filled with the need for payback and the urgency of getting the diamonds back in his possession already. He _should_ , but as he searched for the right reaction, all he could think of was how _similar_ this stranger was to him. 

Feet and body poised to attack, the man was clearly looking for an altercation, just like Andrés had been. Any excuse would probably have done the job but Andrés had come at the perfect time with the most impeccable reason to start a fight that could scrap whatever annoyance the phone call had caused. 

The realisation forced a sudden laugh out of him and a nervous little chuckle stammered past the stranger’s lips in answer. The other man crossed his arms in front of his chest, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Andrés wouldn’t want to disappoint, and with a little swish of his wrist, presented the stolen wallet. 

“You’re remarkable,” he revealed, trying to school his whole face back into the sort of genial arrogance he favored most of the time, yet a silver of genuine amusement and admiration still slipped through. He observed the stranger with more interest this time. He didn’t look like much, not with his current clothes at least, which was something good in Andrés’ line of work when it was time to blend in a crowd. His blue eyes, strong nose and sharp jaw were distinctive enough to be attractive in the right setting, but not so much it would be easy to spot him if someone wanted to identify him. “It’s not often someone realizes what I’m doing,” he continued, “even less is clever and competent enough to pull the trick you just did.”

The man looked at him like Andrés just grew a second head, clearly startled by the heartfelt compliments.

“Maybe you’re just bad,” the man said as he grabbed his wallet and put it away in his back pocket, where it had been so easy to steal. “And don’t give me this— this _vexed pout_! You don’t get to be vexed when you tried to pickpocket me!”

“I didn’t try, I succeeded.” 

“ _Por favor_ ,” he rolled his eyes, his argentinian accent curling warmly around the words, “you didn’t even get to leave the park before I stopped you. It was _really_ badly done.”

The man put a hand on his hips, his thumb slipping in the hook of his jeans usually meant for a belt that was missing. He radiated mockery but there was something off about it, a little uncertainty that came with the strange situation they found themselves in, like he didn’t know on which feet he should dance to come out of this argument unbeaten.

“I suppose I should invite you for a drink, then,” Andrés said. “This way you might forgive me for stealing from a fellow thief.”

The confident posture was lost immediately at his proposition, the stranger’s body language tensing again, completely thrown off. “ _¿Perdón?_ Did you fucking hit your head?” There was a short pause before he added, as a second thought, “And I’m not a thief!”  
  
“What did you just do then?” Andrés argued, gesturing to the diamonds still clenched in a deathly grip. He smirked and walked in a circle around the man, appraising him like a predator would admire his prey. “Believe me, I know a talented thief when I see one.”

“I’m an engineer!” came the protest, though it wasn’t as vehement as it could have been, a touch of pride hiding in the man’s voice despite the nervosity that could also be found. “This is just— for fun. _And_ anyway, I don’t target innocent people.”

Despite himself, Andrés’ curiosity was picked. An engineer doing petty theft to seek retribution from those who wronged him. To chase a thrill when the world tasted bland, when the blood pumping in his veins needed something just a little bit darker and forbidden to _feel alive_. Familiar, yet again.

“Who are you to decide who is innocent and who is not?” he questioned teasingly. “Or do you fancy yourself a modern Robin Hood?”

“I— no! I’m—” the man started, but Andrés cut him off by offering his name, along with his hand for a handshake. 

“I’m Andrés, by the way.” 

Their eyes met and he maintained the contact with quiet confidence, refusing to withdraw his hand when the moment stretched awkwardly between them. It was easy to lose himself in the contemplation of this intriguing man, in the way his blue eyes widened then narrowed, shock and challenge contending for dominance; in the way his breath became deeper when he came to a decision about him, whatever conclusion he reached prompting him to step closer; in the way he hid his left hand in his pocket to look casual, but still clasped their hands together, not shying away from someone who just stole from him. Andrés noted the firmness of the act, neither limp or overpowering, just on the right side of respect instead. An unfaltering “Martín,” was breathed along the greeting, his timid squeeze and confused frown betraying a whisper of uncertainty at the longer than usual connexion between two people sharing a first handshake. 

Andrés blinked and licked his lips, squeezing once quickly before politely getting his hand back. 

“Shall we, then?” he asked, hoping to mask his social faux-pas. 

“Wait— you were serious?” 

“You’ll learn that I’m always serious when it comes to my business arrangements.” Movement snagged his attention, a woman entering the park, and a young child in tow wheeling joyfully past them on her little yellow bike. “Come on, I know a place just a few minutes away from here, I hope you love coffee.” 

He started walking purposefully, omitting to look back to see if he was being followed, certain his analysis of the other man was exact and his curiosity would win over any of his inner objections. Soon enough his intuition was proven right, and Martín was striding next to him, glancing with barely restrained curiosity at Andrés’ profile. The little green velvet pouch was anxiously being passed from hand to hand, like burning charcoals he couldn’t bear to touch for long. 

The engineer opened his mouth a few times before the words “You don’t want them back?” were out in the open, seemingly without his permission. 

“I believe I found something more precious than diamonds,” Andrés answered serenely, and from the corner of his eyes he saw the man blush and almost stumble. _Maybe_ Andrés was being a bit over dramatic but he knew he had been right to show his candid appreciation when the next thing he registered was Martín opening the offensive pack of Maltesers and popping a few chocolate candies in his mouth. 

“I wouldn’t know what to do with so many of these stupid rocks anyway,” Martín shrugged, like he hadn’t just swapped diamonds for chocolate _again_ without Andrés feeling the precise prestidigitation involved. _Fascinating,_ he thought, patting his pocket to feel the stolen stones against his leg. If the Argentinian man was as talented in his job as he was with his hands, Martín was going to be in high demand— better Andrés be the one to poach him first than the concurrence. 

Silence settled between them until they finally entered the coffee shop, Andrés opening the door for Martín and meticulously observing him shrink as he took in the expensive looking place. The fancy establishment was packed, its black walls, cement floor and wooden furnitures attracting a rich clientele that looked as sharp and well dressed as one should be. In comparison, Martín looked underdressed and out of place, his hunched shoulders giving away how unfamiliar the setting was for him. 

Before the younger man could take a step back and disappear in the street, Andrés touched his arm to block his escape, coming close enough to whisper in his ear, “You shouldn’t let furniture or appearances dictate your value Martín. Not when you should be the one to bend others to your will, regardless of how you dress or where you come from.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Martín noted, “you look like you stepped out of some stupid model magazine.”

“Well,” he said, his smile tilting until it split into a pleased grin at the compliment, “I might favor elegant clothes, but not having them does not stop me from obtaining what I want from people.” A table in the corner was being cleaned by a waiter and Andrés pushed Martín in its direction with another touch. “Come on, let’s sit.”

A cappuccino was ordered for Martín, black tea for himself, and soon they were left to their discussion. The engineer turned to glance past the window at the city bustling with activity, contemplating what probably was an unfamiliar place, in the company of an unfamiliar person. He looked a bit lost in the urban wilderness of this city and Andrés was left to wonder about the reason for the man's presence in Germany.

“So, what brings you to Europe— excuse my boldness but you don’t sound like you grew here.”

Blue eyes latched on him and Martín blinked, slowly and deliberately. 

“A problem with my accent?” he retorted, mouth in a flat line as it became clear that the Spaniard's negative view of Argentine people was something Martín knew of. And _yes_ , the cocky, chatty and cheeky attitude they were reputed for was there, but the man was not arrogant, far from it. There was nothing provincial or _lacking_ about him, and beauty could be found in his accent, something warm and fast that fitted the man in front of him.

“It has a sing-song quality I find as charming as with the Italian accent— so no problem with it, no.”

“Oh,” Martín managed, deflating until his eyes dropped down to the menu still on the table, scanning the food the coffee shop served to avoid his gaze. “Well— I’m just travelling after quitting my last job.”

“Were you looking for a prolonged vacation?”

“More like I was in need of a change of pace. I didn’t do well working with others,” Martín grimaced, fussing with his silverware. It was clearly a distraction from the conversation, though Andrés didn’t know the details of what was stressing the man.

“Ah,” Andrés said. “I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in the job opportunity I could offer you then? Life is funny that way, I happen to be looking for new partners.”

The waiter stopped him from going further, dropping their order with a smile before ghosting off to his next task. 

“I think you’re mistaken,” Martín finally answered, fingers drumming on the table. “That’s not the kind of job I seek.”

It prompted a half-smile on Andrés’ face. “Am I?” he asked, two of his fingertips tapping softly on Martín’s nervous fingers to settle them and underline the importance of his next words. “I see someone with enough raw talent to be a serious concurrent in my own circles, someone brilliant and cunning but apparently too _opinionated_ to work well with others when they can’t recognize your need for chaos.”

“You don’t know me,” Martín hissed, retracting his hand like the touch had burnt him.

“I do not,” he acknowledged, and though he didn’t say _‘yet’_ outloud his eyes bore into their blue counterparts, willing Martín to realise what Andrés already knew. 

_Don’t you see? I find myself reflected in you— what does it say about the part of you in me?_

He drank his tea serenely, basking amidst the silence. Even if Martín couldn’t admit it, there was potential hidden in him— and more so, between them. Andrés didn’t lie when he said he found something more precious than diamonds. After all, discovering someone talented with whom he felt he could work was a rare occurrence, and when that someone had raw talent like Martín had — ready to be shaped and to learn the trade, yet so knowledgeable about subjects Andrés didn’t know much about — it wouldn’t be respectful to ignore it. Whatever or whoever put Martín on his path, Andrés trusted they were meant to walk part of it together. He could become Andrés’ secret ace to draw plans more daring and beautiful than any other, if only he could convince him.

“It’s a serious offer,” he tried again. “I can teach you what you don’t know about this work and I’m convinced that with your degree and the love I have for my trade, we could paint together the most beautiful plans and be known in all of Europe.”

“You talk about it like it’s art.”

“It is. Few people see the beauty in it, but it’s a craft to do what I do. There is more to it than lifting a simple wallet.” 

Andrés tilted his head in the direction of the only television of the place, mute but transmitting news of the diamonds theft, the presentator talking about the safe — one of the most secure safes in the world — that was forced open a week ago despite being rumored unbreachable. When Martín finally connected the dot, his eyes growing wide and his mouth slacking a bit from surprise. Andrés smirked, hot satisfaction burning bright and melting his doubts at trusting a stranger with the information. It was _admiration_ he just witnessed, and Andrés was addicted to it already. As short as it had stayed on Martín’s face, Andrés knew he hadn’t dreamt it. 

“You’re trying to hire me, but you weren’t really convincing earlier in the park,” Martín said nonchalantly, and if Andrés wasn’t so laser-focused on the man, he might have missed the cautious yet hopeful way he was being watched in return. “I’m not sure I can trust you to teach me anything.”

“Oh really? Ask me to get you back something you want then, as long as it’s inside the shop.”

It was a gamble, but Andrés regularly gambled on the unseen complexity of other people. He had played longer games to get what he wanted, though he was confident he wouldn’t have to wait long this time. Caution told him there was something unpredictable about Martín, but with the way he had reacted to their interactions up until then, Andrés’ money was on the man taking the bait.

“What?” 

“See it as an interview— I already evaluated your talents, I know I want you to work with me. Since my last job isn’t enough qualification for you, challenge me.”

With his lips, Andrés cautiously tested the heat of his tea before drinking from it, waiting for an answer. 

“You’re serious.”

Andrés nodded. Cerulean eyes darted across the room while the cup of coffee was raised to Martín’s mouth. When he lowered it back on the table, Martín shook his head like he couldn’t believe he was going to play that game, then leaned in to whisper his next words. 

“That man at the counter?” He threw a look at a fifty-something years old man wearing an expensive looking brown suit and currently busy insulting the waitress who was taking his order. “I want his cufflinks.”

The pleasure Andrés felt at being seeked on someone openly rude only sharpened when he heard what his assignment was. Cufflinks were tricky little pieces of jewelry, each model coming with a different clasp, small but close enough to the hands and wrists that a wrong move would have him discovered. 

Martín was testing him. 

“Order another cup of tea for me then.”

With one last smile, he walked up to the central wooden ilot where customers could directly order a refill or something on the go, strategically waiting for the waitress to come back next to his mark. He would usually take time to prowl for a suitable victim, both in character and with an object he knew how to operate and steal with years of training. He was lacking that element of control this time, which in truth made the challenge all the more exciting.

“Miss,” he demanded once the waitress was out of earshot, sounding exasperated as he checked his watch, a very rare and expensive Patek Philippe he stole from an arrogant CEO working for the brand during his last trip to Switzerland. With its artistically gold engraving on the case, elegant numbers circling the moon phase display and black alligator strap, the watch did its job and attracted his mark’s attention. 

Being friendly and desensitising people to subtle physical touch was all the subtlety the art of pickpocketing asked out of someone, and Andrés had spent his teenage years mastering it. He started chatting about the collectible watches the foolish idiot was luckily fond of, taking off his stolen one to show it off and use the opportunity to innocently bump into the man’s wrist a few times to check the cufflinks clasps. 

His first misdirection came in the form of the frowning waitress marching back with the man’s order. While the payment took place and Andrés exchanged a flat and polite goodbye, he carefully placed his foot near one of his mark’s ankles, ready to trip him the moment he would hastly leave the shop. The moment gravity took hold on his victim, Andrés was there to help, holding the man up by his wrist, strong grip securing him. The cufflinks were his between the falsely startled “Are you alright?!” and the man’s angry “ _Der Scheißkerl!_ ” He didn’t stop to remark on the strange shape of his loot, not yet, vanishing instead the little objects with a sleight of hand. The waiter running to check if his customer wasn’t hurt when the burning coffee splashed on the ground was the perfect second misdirection, and Andrés excused himself back toward his table where Martín and a second helping of tea were waiting for him. Nibbling on more Maltesers, the man was trying to hide his smile.

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” Andrés asked as he sat down.

“Not really. I actually asked for popcorn with your fancy tea but they didn’t have any,” Martín answered, mouth covered by his hand as he ate another piece of chocolate. His eyes though— his eyes weren’t hidden from view and Andrés got to admire the mirth in them when the man he just stole from left the coffee shop, slamming the door behind him.

“Should I deduce the show was to your liking?”

“Hmm, it depends,” Martín pondered. “Did you get them?”

“Did I get them?” he parroted, slowly opening one of his hands to show his prize. 

The cufflinks were beautiful and way more expensive than he had thought at first glance. Andrés wondered if Martín had been able to see their value or if he only enjoyed the idea of a rich and ungrateful man falling prey to their clever hands. The pair was designed as two spool-shaped bar-links with central pavé-set diamond band and sapphire cabochon terminals, mounted elegantly in gold, something stunningly refined. The engineer carefully touched one of the deep blue stones but made no gesture to take them in his own hands. 

“Not bad,” admitted his new acquaintance, eyes lingering on the expensive jewelry carefully cradled in his right palm. It was easy to fold back the cuff of his shirt and reveal the little thing he took while he ‘shopped’ for the cufflink and Martín’s eyes crinkled immediately. “ _Malparido_ , you fucking took his watch too!” 

“It was pretty and from what the man told me, he has several replacements at home.” Andrés pressed his lips together, suppressing a smile at the laugh he got out of Martín. It was worth the trouble he went through to get the extra item, his talent in display for the man to appreciate. “Now, about my job offer— will you consider it?”

Martín blinked uncomprehendingly at him, looking genuinely surprised despite everything that just happened. “You really want _me_ to work for you?”

“With me. But yes, I do.” 

There was a long pause. Martín had a _life_. Whatever kind of life he led up until then, he had one, and if he said yes to him, a _stranger_ — worse, a _thief_ — it might collapse around him. Still, Andrés waited, committed to his proposal for he knew that man was meant for more than his boring little routine. He had to come out of his own volition, and he could leave whenever he wished to, but Andrés _knew_ Martín would flourish once he tasted the high of a heist gone right. 

“You want me to be— what? Your partner?”

“Exactly.” Andrés moved his hand, still open with stolen jewelry cradled in it, offering it to Martín’s transfixed eyes as he quoted from memory a haiku he loved, “ _Ir a lo hondo. Tiene un alto riesgo. Dame la mano._ ” _Go into the deep. Take a high risk. Take my hand._ “Or are you afraid of swimming with sharks, Martín?”

“I see no shark here.” 

“Oh, you will.” _  
_

Finally, Martín tore his gaze from the cufflinks and, as they made eye contact again, Andrés knew he had won.

“I guess I don’t have anything better to do just yet,” shrugged Martín, but Andrés smiled warmly, hearing the yes it was meant to be.

“Good,” he acknowledged. “And Martín?” 

The man looked at him with curiosity, though there was still suspicion in his gaze, defensiveness that Andrés wanted to glimpse behind. He forgot what he meant to say, following instead his next impulse and reaching for Martín’s right hand. His fingertips barely had time to graze over the man’s knuckles before they were ripped away violently, almost frightfully. Andrés raised an eyebrow, challenging, and tapped the table with two of his fingers, right where Martín’s hand had been. 

“Your wrist Martín,” he demanded, and this time Martín obeyed. His expression was part sour, part reluctant smile, his uncertainty shining through his imperfect façade. 

It was like he expected the gentle touch to hurt. It only convinced Andrés to take his time undoing the cuff button of Martín’s shirt, folding the fabric back to expose the little space where he smoothly slipped one of the cufflink.

“Andrés,” Martín frowned, a silent question in between the letters of his name.

Closing the clasp was a short affair, Andrés’ knuckles faintly caressing the inside of Martín’s wrist as he unfolded the fabric and rearranged the shirt. Satisfied, he asked “The other, thank you,” repeating the motions.

“What are you doing?”

Andrés smirked at him then, though it softened a bit when he realised the man really didn’t understand. “You didn’t think I got them only to admire them? They are yours now. Such beauties are meant to be treasured by the world, after all.”

Cufflinks finally in place like some unspoken promise tying them together, Andrés took his cooling cup of tea to his lips and welcomed the strong taste of bergamot. Martín’s face was a picture of stubbornness, refusal clearly trying to be voiced instead of the shy pleasure Andrés could detect at being in possession of the precious ornaments. 

“I can’t accept this, it cost probably more than everything I have with me.”

“Well,” Andrés said, hiding his smile behind his cup of tea, “better be careful then, you never know when someone might steal something precious from you.” 

———

It had been an obvious choice. 

When the time to hide the last part of himself had come, Andrés hadn’t hesitated and Berlín had replaced his name. 

Each person had their own intimate scale to measure the passing of time and sort out the frieze depicting their life. For Andrés, these moments had always been rooted in violence or sadness: the departure of his father, the death of his mother, the announcement of his cancer. All but for this day that had shaped the next ten years of his life. He couldn’t have known the impact their chance meeting in Berlin would have, though it had quickly felt as if the Universe had decided to deal him a nicer hand with every day spent learning more about the man he stole from. Still, he hadn't understood the magnitude of what he had gained — and what he had to lose. After meeting his clever engineer, everything fitted in two folders labelled _before Martín_ and _after Martín_. 

He waited for the door to close behind _Clayderman’_ s back before letting go of his rage. He slammed his foot into one of the chairs of the office— hard. It flew across the room and crashed with a barely satisfying noise. He needed to feel something break. To expel the rancor that was bound to rot every time he would see Martín’s face in the halls of the Mint.

 _“I can follow orders, Berlín”_ Martín had said, but like fucking hell Andrés would play into whatever plan his friend had concocted when he chose to crash this heist. There had always been a possibility of him just showing up after Andrés abandoned him in Firenze, but this was different. This wasn’t the confrontation that he had feared when he went back looking for Martín’s cufflinks, stealing them selfishly, needing to have a part of his friend with him when the time would come to die alone. 

This wasn’t accidental. 

Martín had backed him in a corner with the specifics of Sergio’s plans on his side. He was cunning, smart and vicious when he put his brilliant mind to something and Andrés knew with an instinctual certainty that he needed to be expulsed from the Mint as soon as possible. 

Andrés’ hands were shaking as he walked to the room where the phone was supposedly already installed. One of his thumbs found the form of the cufflinks hidden in the pocket closest to his heart, and pressed against them. _Martín was here_ and everything was collapsing— agonizing hours spent daydreaming of what could have been, of the necessity of that last goodbye, of the careful construction of one last bittersweet yet loving image Martín would have of him, for nothing. The door was pushed open with more force than necessary, Andrés trying to ground himself and failing. _Martín was here_ and he wished the man had been another hallucination.

He sat in front of the red phone, waiting for Sergio’s call with his face lowered into his hands, pressing his fingers against the tension building behind his eyes. 

It wouldn’t have been the first time he dreamt of him or saw him lurking in the shadows. Sometimes, when he used more Tramadol than he should to deal with the pain, Andrés’ perception changed until that one piece of him he had been holding out of the light crawled into the open. It usually was the whisper of Martín’s voice or the phantom caress of his touch that started it. Surreal, the apparition never stayed long, if he was to be seen at all. But not this time. 

The giant knots caused by Martín’s presence needed to be untangled, quickly, but too many things were happening at once, too much to process with his best friend’s life on the line, too much to do. It was Andrés’ responsibility to fix this mess, though he had always been better at destroying a problem than solving it. 

The thrill ringing coming from the phone finally stopped his train of thoughts and Andrés’ exasperated voice interrupted his brother’s “We aren’t scheduled to call yet. Why aren’t you down—” with a quick and efficient “We have a problem.”

His brother took a breath then, the stress strangling Sergio apparently not enough to completely erase his worries for him. Andrés would have been touched if the situation wasn’t a step away from blowing up before they had even secured the fort. “My problem is that you should be supervising the next stage of the plan. The alarm has been activated, the police are coming. What is so important that you’re not where you should be? Is it your health?”

He laughed and forced himself to relax in his chair. If only his failing body was the problem, things would be easier to deal with. A sarcastic grimace was thrown over his face before he turned to look at the camera, at his little brother, at _El Profesor_ , who was about to face the first unexpected twist of his well timed plan.

“Well, _he_ is bad for everyone’s health if he decides to put the plan in danger.”

“ _Who_ exactly are we talking about?” Stony silence was apparently enough of an answer. “I see.” Sergio’s tone gave nothing away of what he really thought, of what he actually understood of Andrés’ dishonest phrasing and following reluctance to speak. His fingers twitched painfully around the phone, smile frozen in place, unable to decide if he wanted to seethe more about Martín’s presence or defend his friend’s idiotic tendencies from his brother’s cold but fair judgement. “Can you tell me _how_ exactly Martín found his way in?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, I have nothing to do with this. He infiltrated as an employee, has been here for a while apparently, if I trust the _affection_ one of the women has for him. I’m not the one who was in charge of keeping up with who is working in the building,” Andrés said evenly, taking these few minutes talking to his brother as the opportunity to regain composure. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him. There was nothing for it after all: he had to play along. Martín was there and the doors were about to close and trap them like rats in a labyrinthe. “Not that it would have helped,” he added, wincing at the memory of Martín’s disguise. “He not only changed his name but his appearance. You should see him, his moustache is simply disgusti—”

“I don’t _care_ , we don’t have time for Martín’s little show. He needs to be dealt with and isolated.”

“We can’t simply put him away. We can’t spare someone to look after him all the time, and _I_ won’t have time to babysit him,” he argued before Sergio could even suggest it. “We need to get him out of the Mint with the first hostages we free. He _can’t_ stay. He’s a wild card none of us accounted for.”

“For once, we both agree about Martín’s unpredictability being dangerous for the—”

Andrés bit on his tongue to not answer back vehemently, not that he would have had a chance with the hostages erupting into a cacophony of screams. Still, their terror was too timid to truly cover the sound of the weapons going off.

“Berlín!” 

“I know!” he snapped before hanging up and starting to run. 

When he crossed the hall full of hostages being watched over by Oslo and Helsinki, Andrés only allowed himself to slow down for a few seconds— just enough to glimpse Martín’s ridiculous clothes and the new addition on his face. He kept on running until he reached the entrance and saw Río’s unmoving form lying on the marble floor, Tokio crying and clutching at his body. Denver was still screaming at them for their stupid little sex affair and Andrés silently signed for Oslo to come over.

“What happened?” he murmured, aware the hostages were close enough to hear them if they kept being so loud. He crouched on the ground to check the younger’s member pulse and almost let out a relieved sigh: it was strong. The stupid child had simply fainted from too much adrenaline.

“ _Berlín!_ What the fuck were you doing?” accused Denver, agitated and loud, but it wouldn’t do. This new mess was to be dealt with in silence.

“It’s not yours to question,” Andrés replied in a low tone, voice accompanied with a menacing look to drive the point home. “Río is fine. Tokio stops with your hysteria, we’ll get your little fling out of the way.” He turned to Oslo. “You and Helsinki stay and keep the hostages in check. _Don’t_ hurt anyone, whatever happens we need them safe and sound.”

“Th— They shot at him!” the brunette argued, shaking with nerves. 

He almost laughed in her face.

“That’s what happens when you shoot at them. They fire back. I shouldn’t have to explain _that_ to you, should I?” 

Denver intercepted her before she could swing at him and he only smiled back at the younger woman, knowing full well how unpleasant it was to be faced with his polite and well-mannered façade — he crafted it for this purpose after all. She reeled in silent anger, deciding he wasn’t worth her time when her little lover was lying unconscious on the ground. 

When she tried to stare him down defiantly, the usually silent Serbian interjected with a soft, “Tokio.” Andrés didn’t bulge, refusing to give her anything that could be seen as an opening to question his authority. Despite the sheer pigheadedness Tokio exulted most of the time, a small movement coming from Río was enough to break her resolve and she grimaced as she looked away.

“Right, let’s go,” she finally said, openly unhappy about accepting _Berlín_ ’s help out of everyone from the band. 

They _nicely_ threw the kid on Denver’s back before taking one of the empty corridors they secured earlier. Less imposing stairs allowed them to join the first floor without walking by the hostages again and soon, Río was laid on a couch and Tokio didn’t lose any time. She started undoing the kid’s clothes to check if there was more than simple bruisings to blame for his fainting, frantic in her worried state. 

“We’re going to leave before you decide to kiss your Sleeping Beauty,” Andrés quipped, “or more.”

It drew an ugly laugh out of Denver, causing Andrés to almost miss Tokio’s experated “Get out!” 

He did leave, of course. There was nothing more to do with the two idiots cast as the star-crossed lovers. Not anything useful at least. He would have stayed to recklessly provoke Tokio’s ire in other circumstances, but Martín was still loose in the middle of their group of hostages with nothing but havoc to wreak to pass time. He walked the premises, Denver on his trail, probably thinking about the situation that could have been much worse. Lost in his own speculation about the future, Andrés was surprised to collide with Nairobi on their way to the main hall. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be starting the machines?” he asked quickly, wary of any new complications in the plan.

“I would, but we’re late. You were supposed to send my ‘volunteers’ an hour ago Berlín!”

“Follow us,” he replied, hoping to be frustratingly elusive as a form of petty revenge for her annoyed tone.

It was easier to let Denver and Nairobi’s soft rambling out of his thoughts when the whimpers of their captives were within hearing distance again. When they finally found themselves at the top of the central staircase again, Andrés had to resist the urge to square his shoulders for a couple seconds. The terrible Clayderman disguise was distinctive enough to make Martín easy to spot in the crowd of strangers, and Andrés was acutely aware of his own heartbeat pulsing nervously in his throat. 

Still, he walked down the stairs and pointedly ignored Martín, unwilling to give the man any attention. It was better if his companions didn’t know of their connexion, and even more important that the rest of the hostages stayed ignorant. 

“Ladies and gentlemen.” He smiled, at ease in his role of master of ceremonies. “We will have the special privilege of spending a few _extra_ days together—” 

The rest of the instructions were given quickly, calm and pleased confidence pouring out of him. When the self assured idiot the Mint had for director spoke up, Andrés let Denver play. It was delightful to observe the man’s juddering breath when a blank was fired, his disappointment almost palpable. 

Things were moving up. Everyone was ready to be shipped to their respective place and Martín would be safely out of sight and out of mind. Most of all, Andrés would be able to do his job and act as if his friend’s presence was nothing more than another hallucination. 

Or he would have been able to, if Martín’s words hadn’t twisted a knife in his chest.

“You can help me with mine, _gordito._ ”

Andrés’ stomach churned and his heart turned over. He slammed on the brake of his irrational bitterness, simply leaning his head back against his crossed palms and staring at the ceiling in fake annoyance. He was all ears though, desperately wanting to remind Martín _of his place_ , though Andrés wasn’t sure where that was exactly. 

His apparent nonchalance snapped when Arturo’s big mouth opened again, vicious poison coming out of it in the form of a slur aimed at Martín. His hands closed into fists and he wanted to splinter the silence with them, wanting to feel blood on his knuckles and hear bones break under the impact. He didn’t. He forbade himself to move, not even to admire the man cowering on the ground after Martín decided to punch him square in the jaw. Andrés didn’t smile, nor laugh. Nothing to speak of the thundering roll of his heartbeat in his ears. Nothing to take the edge of his fury off. Nothing to distract him from the bitter self-loathing making his chest collapse when he didn’t speak up, acting indifferent when Martín was attacked for being himself. 

His friend knew nothing of the oath he took that day in _Venezia_. The secret promise he made to his own heart was betrayed by his silence— it tarnished the pride Andrés had whenever he stepped in and verbally or, at times, physically, gutted someone for their homophobic comments. 

Instead, he kept the hatred at bay, carefully placed behind a wall of glass. He could feel it simmering, but unless he pressed his open hand against the varnish of his self-control, the icy surface of his thoughts should maintain his unaffected mask. 

“Since you seem to have a fixation on what _Clayderman_ does for our team, I’ll put you both together. Play nicely,” Andrés said, finally looking at the only person that mattered in the room. “Oslo, take our little sheep to the tunnel. I think we’ve found him a home at last.” 

Outrage crossed Martín’s face. “The _tunnel_?” he asked, disbelief and hurt evident in his voice.

“Don’t worry, the dirt shouldn’t worsen the state of your _elegant_ mustache,” Andrés mocked. 

A simple gesture of his hand was enough for Oslo to grab Martín roughly and force him to comply with his order. Denver started escorting the rest of the hostages tasked for the manual labor, ready to follow in Oslo’s footsteps but the self-satisfied smirk on Arturo’s face couldn’t stay.

“Tss, tss, Arturo, not so fast.” Andrés stopped him with a razor-sharp smile cutting his face and a hand closed around the director’s shoulder, hard enough to win him a whimper of pain. “Wanna be heroes are difficult to control,” he mused, tapping two fingers against the man’s right cheek, scolding him with almost childish glee. The threatening smile he wore made Arturo shrink before his eyes, only adding to Andrés’ disgust for his snivelling form. “But I’ve learnt that a little pain can go a long way in making a man do what I want.” He added another slap to Arturo’s face, the sting reddening the targeted cheek. “You’re lucky I pride myself on being a merciful man. Do **not** be heard again if you don’t want a taste of what I can do.”

Part of him wanted to tear right into the man, but none of this was supposed to be personal. ‘ _Supposed_ ’ was a nice sentiment that didn’t care much for the man who had painted a target on his back the moment he made the first snide comment toward Martín. Andrés had better things to deal with though, now that he could put his friend out of his mind, and he turned his mind to his mission, letting Arturo leave with Denver’s little herd. 

He brushed imaginary wrinkles out of his clothes before walking to a woman weeping anxiously, finding enough concern in himself to ask half-sincerely, “Would it be better if we brought you a sedative?” 

The good health of the hostages was something he had been tasked to maintain and he asked people to speak up with their demands. The ones who did made their way, one right after the other, following the silent direction of his hands to regroup them together.

Surprisingly, the cute secretary with her golden curls broke the line, standing proud as she said, “I’d like to ask for an abortion pill.” He didn’t need more than a few seconds to see what the probable father was thinking of the demand, the director of the Mint sweating and frowning with unhappiness and anxiety as she kept talking. “We don’t know how many days we’ll be here, and I want this done soon.”

“You’ll get it today,” he agreed, knowing there wasn’t time to lose if she didn’t want to keep the bastard child. The other women in need of medication would have to be kept apart, cries and panic attacks too high a risk for them in their current environment. “Ladies, I’m taking you to Mr. Roman’s office, where you can relax.”

Little lamb spoke up as he got ready to lead them out. “I also have a request.”

“Yes,” he asked softly, annoyance barely covered up by the sickening sweetness of his voice when he stood in front of her. 

“I’d like to delete a photo on the internet.”

“I’m sorry, that’s out of my hands.” The stupid demand didn’t deserve more of his time but she stopped him from walking away by speaking again, explaining the situation she found herself in. She was just a teen, he observed, clearly more afraid for her reputation than anything that could become of her. It was obvious she knew how imperative she was for the plan. “You can record a message, a video,” he offered, “so they don’t worry, and we’ll send it.” 

She didn’t reply but his stare prompted her to nod, a proof she understood the terms of their little agreement. He quickly offered the same opportunity to every hostage, the videos both a proof of their continued life and a future pawn in his brother’s plan to distract the police and gain them more time. He sent Alison with Denver to record the video once Oslo came back from tending to Río, hoping everything was back on track now. 

Instead, as the food was finally distributed to the hostages and annoying chewing noises floated around the room, all of the infinitesimal factors needed to worsen the day apparently decided to converge together in the form of Tokio. 

“Berlín!” the woman called from the top of the stairs, frantic as she pointed with a finger in the direction of the west side of the building. “Phone, for you!”

He pushed through the hostages who parted like the red sea, leaving to deal with whatever Sergio deemed important enough to have him come up before the next programmed check point. It was unlikely that this second call was about Martín, he knew. Just in case, he vowed not to show any of his cards, even to his brother and especially to Martín himself. Both were stupidly involved in their own little machinations, but Andrés had his own goal here and nothing would stop him, not when he could finally see the finish line of his long journey looking for the right ending. 

He just had to keep every player satisfied and in their designated space until Sergio’s plan succeeded. That, and be careful. Maybe if he was— if he played the game well enough, Martín would be out of the Mint before the night was over.

Of course, that was before Sergio’s voice severely announced, “They have Tokio and Río.”


	7. Heist Day 2, 9:00am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are ready for more Berlermo backstory. We decided it was important to show their roots while working through the Mint heist: how they met, how they bonded...and maybe even more. Thank you for all our reviews and kudos, as always. We are just blown away by all the support and love. 
> 
> With the action starting to pick up, we'll slow down the updates to once a week and see each other every Saturday from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: homophobic family, mentioned child abuse/neglect, internalized homophobia and minor descriptions of violence (not graphic, but mentions of blood/injury). This is the chapter with Mónica and the phone.

Eighteen months was a long time to keep such a monumental part of himself locked up. The heavy burden placed on his shoulders, seemingly since birth, was his alone to bear — he knew it was best from experience. Still, the ulcer in his stomach ached, the acidity always returning. He’d tried for months to convince himself it didn’t have any place in his friendship with Andrés; but they had come to know each other beyond superficial stories and easy smiles. They’d freely revealed darker sides of themselves and accepted each other’s faults as human flaws, meant to be improved rather than only condemned. They’d bonded, Martín hoped, because they had recognized something others often missed upon assessing them. Though they had spent some months apart in the last year and a half, it felt natural, as though no time had passed at all each time they met again. The idea that some lost part of himself found form in Andrés’ friendship was a childish notion, built on the idea of a utopia he’d never believed in. Life was cruel, malicious even, and people were not meant to be homes for the wounded and weary. But he knew it was more than that for both of them, healthy attachments formed in ways he had never had with anyone. It was hard to believe it could be mutual, but as Andrés walked by his side down the narrow street, tall buildings blocking out the last of the Venetian summer sun, he could not bring himself to deny the one thing he knew to be true.   
  
Well—perhaps not the _one_ thing.   
  
He was never quite sure when he had come to know. Suspicion seemed to latch onto and follow him from an early age, but no one had ever taken time to explain. Dirty looks from his mother were often followed with cruel comments, leaving the younger version of himself locked in his room as he tried to think of ways to make her smile, to do anything to be the first born son he was expected to be. He could never quite fill that role, and the differences between him and his younger siblings only became increasingly apparent as he grew. They were allowed to seek her warmth, gentle embraces and reassuring sentiment wrapped around them. Dismay only greeted him in turn, even as he tried to work his way through the humble beginnings of his education. His father was often away, and never affectionate in the way he needed when his duties in the Argentine army allowed him to be home. Still, even through his apprehension, he had taught him all the things a young man ought to be learning. But those moments dwindled as arguments filled their family home in the dead of night, bickering about _him_ , his mother ever so insistent his father was blind to the ways _he_ was broken.   
  
The last time he’d seen any of them was marked with hollowing words that still wreaked havoc on his mind on the worst of nights. _No es realmente un hombre_ would always be the meaning of the last thing he’d heard from his parents, both holding up the other in support. Whatever sentiment his father had ever held for him was depleted, or perhaps it had always been nonexistent. It was hard to tell, when as a nineteen year old, he could no longer refute the cause. It had all slowly built up quickly each time one of his friends remarked on one of the girls walking by, dressed in their uniforms. It was added to when girls batted their eyes at him, and he felt more watching one of his companions smile happily at him on the grassy fields they used to play football. He could no longer deny it to himself when beautiful Catalina’s brown hair had stroked his face, brown eyes sparkling until the moment he pushed her attempted kiss away.   
  
But if it were meant to be a sign that he could never be a man, had always been broken since birth, how had his family discarded him so easily? Surely, they could have tried to offer him a lifeline, done anything to fix this _thing_ inside of him. Instead, he’d been discarded by his mother from the beginning, and failed the chance he’d been given to prove himself to his father. He vowed never to speak of it to anyone else, even when he had grown to act on it. Each powerful kiss, every little electric touch, the musky or earthy smells that surrounded him, had all left his heart racing and shattered from his desire and repugnance. Every indulgence never lasted long, a couple of nights the longest on record before he the urge to run finally won. He’d finally departed Argentina after that, and assumed his quick evenings in discrete hotels up until that day in Berlín when he’d resigned to bottling it up once again.   
  
_Snap_. 

Andrés’ fingers clicked in front of his face repetitively, eyebrows raised as he quietly contemplated the source of Martín’s unusual silence. They’d spent their day viewing a few of the more luxurious Murano glass showrooms, glittering pieces of extraordinary designs and extravagant colors catching both their eyes. It wasn’t their intended target, Andrés ever insistent there was some art in the world they simply would not loot from talented artists. He’d enjoyed the magnificent displays of the artistic math and science, a perfect evening for both their interests. 

Andrés interrupted his renewed unfocused thoughts and he had to blink rapidly to pay attention. “Martín, have you heard a word I said?”   
  
“You were talking about the last exhibit,” he replied, taking his best guess. In his defense, they had been discussing a few of the highlights, Andrés ever the one to wax poetic. Normally, he loved absorbing the other man’s enthusiasm for life, philosophy, and even art. Tonight, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering down a dangerous road that would leave him all alone. “The—abstract one?”   
  
Andrés stopped, looked over his shoulder back down the way they had just come. It was all the confirmation he needed to know that was the wrong answer, alerting him he had missed an entirely different topic of conversation as he drowned in his own jaded memories. “If you preferred to walk in silence, you should have said something.”   
  
“Malparido, you like the sound of your own voice. My request would have been denied,” he teased, hoping the jest would be enough to turn the topic of conversation. Andrés’ perceived lack of empathy might yet prove to be true, and it would be in his favor if he chose now to do so. Even if he did care for others, the smoke and mirrors of his friendly affection for Martín could draw to an end, saving him the need to deliver the blow himself.   
  
“Entonces estás teniendo pequeños ensueños? I’m happy to listen to your musings.” He asked, a sly smirk creeping across his face as his arms crossed over his chest.   
  
Normally, he might have entertained Andrés’ comment with a quip of his own, or even spoke of the things distracting him. But, fear was already marking his skin, trying to crawl down his spine. He twisted his shoulders as though he were only fighting an itch, not something far more destructive. He felt colder, even with beads of sweat still scattered across his chest, now starting to stick to his pale linen shirt. He shook his head, taking a step towards the open street when Andrés’ hand reached for his, fingers brushing over the inside of his wrist.

The gesture was a foreign one: physical touch was the line in the sand defining the limits of their friendship. Ever since the first first contact in Germany when Andrés had fastened the cufflinks to his sleeves, they’d kept at least minuscule distance from each other. But this? This little touch froze him in place, slowing the beating of his rampant heart and warming the frigid chill of his bones. His eyes softened, eyelids drooping as Andrés’ index finger, subconsciously, rubbed a soothing circle against his pulse point 

“Andrés, I’m tired.”   
  
His friend hesitated before he let go, assuming a place just in front of Martín as he continued to lead the way. He followed blindly until they passed the now gold tinted Rialto Bridge, colored by the setting sun. He turned his head to his friend, blinking in surprise as he recognized the change of route when they turned left. “I thought you wanted to eat? Didn’t you have reservations?”   
  
“I think having something brought to our room will suffice. You need off your feet.” 

Weak arguments about how he would manage to be on his best behavior despite the exhaustion threatening to make him fall flat on his face were whisked away, obediently following and quietly appreciative of the minor sacrifice. He knew it wasn’t a monumental gesture, since Andrés had an early flight in the morning that would take him away for a few more weeks until it was time for their job. He, on the other hand, would travel south to Ravenna, alone once again until he had a purpose. It was what he’d grown accustomed to: a short period allowed the grace of Andrés company, the way he had with everyone he’d ever cared for. He choked on the cry forming in the back of his throat, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.   
  
When he looked up from his feet once again, he wished he’d noticed Andrés looking over his shoulder at him sooner. He might have seen more of the other man’s concern turn to confusion, inverted eyebrows and flat expression enough to speak volumes as he sped up the rest of their short walk. Before he realized, they were making their way up the crema marfil grand staircase, the dark settling in through the extended half round windows. The stained glass cast moonlit shadows on his face, hiding the heavy bags now evident under his eyes. His shoulders slouched forward, one foot after the other following Andrés until they reached the door to their suite.   
  
He hadn’t complained when Andrés selected such a large room for their week together. It gave them both optimal space, with enough room to scatter their plans carefully when they were not locked inside its doors. Now, expensive lamps and pillows seemed to mock him, reminding him that he could not release the turmoil brewing inside him by smashing things. He knew Andrés would not take kindly to him lashing out in such a way, knowing the other man’s tendencies to remain well composed unless absolutely necessary. Instead, he threw himself on one of the long greys sofas, fingers digging into one of the plush pillows.   
  
Andrés at least had the decency to pretend he was not observing him. He had taken the seat around the other side of the round, cherry oak table, his line of vision partially blocked by the vase filled with lavender and white pansies. He rubbed his jaw, glancing at the painting adoring the walls behind Martín, but never directly at him. Martín kept watching him for the corner of his eye, longing to share the weight of his burdens with someone he believed he could actually trust. But, they had talked up years of delightful plans, endless options to quench their desire for adrenaline. The idea of revealing the truth about himself only left him with one painful fear: they brought out the best in each other, what happened if being honest shattered their friendship like a glass dropped on the ground. 

His body shook, tears harder to fight with every passing moment. This wasn’t fair. He had plenty to offer beyond his sexuality. He should be allowed to have this part of himself not fit the ideal mold made for him, while still highlighting all of his more traditional masculine strengths. This wasn’t by his design. If he had his way, his life would have been made differently. But he knew they both deserved to have this out in the open. Andrés had readily trusted him with his most coveted secret: the knowledge of his younger brother, though they had yet to meet. If his friend was so willing to diverge such personal information, he should be able to do the same.   
  
But he was more cowardly lion than the dashing, brave young hero Andrés was.   
  
“Martín? You know you don’t have to keep it all bottled inside.”   
  
His eyes shot open, but fixated forward. He trembled at the words, so reassuring and honest, but marked by some quiet thing he couldn’t place his finger on. As he turned his head, he thought he could see doubt marked on Andrés’ face, lip curled down as his fingers scratched the back of his thumb. He was now refusing to look at Martín, an unexpected sadness in his dark brown eyes. He couldn’t understand why Andrés would be so upset by him being shut off, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had imagined it all when it was gone after he rubbed his eyes.   
  
“I don’t want you to think less of me.”   
  
“I’ve yet to see a reason why I should.”   
  
“You don’t know everything there is to know about me. I’m—sure you have certain opinions that might not allow you to agree with my lifestyle.” He pushed himself up off the sofa, each step slower than the next as he circled around the side of the table. He was in direct view of Andrés now, but he had to look at the ground in front of his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking nervously where he stood. He’d never done this before. He could hear laughter echoing in his ears, mocking him in his first attempt to speak of it now. His actions had always done the job when words failed him, but that did not seem like it would suffice now. Whatever the consequence, he owed it to them both to get through this confession.   
  
“Take your time, Martín,” came Andrés’ reply. 

He titled his chin up, just enough to see his friend, legs directly in front of him and back sat straight, his undivided attention willingly given. Martín shrunk further, eyes glossed over as he sniffled. A broken, deep breath made his trembles more noticeable, and he was grateful for the silence offered in return.   
  
“I—I’ve known this for a while. I know it’s off putting to some, given that there are—certain stereotypes or expectations for men. I—I—” His hands covered his face, the words foreign and venomous on his tongue. He’d give anything to so fully accept every aspect of his personality like the eccentric man sitting in front of him, but they differed in this one important trait. He’d give anything to be _normal_ , if sharing this strained their bond. He stumbled, catching himself before his knee could knock against the table. When he looked up at Andrés once again, he had jumped to his feet, but still maintained a small distance. The closer proximity was enough to finally encourage the words from his lips, barely audible to the both of them. “I’m gay.”   
  
He was ready to run out of the room, or watch Andrés do the same. He started to scramble backwards when he felt a strong hand wrap around his wrist and pull him forward. Andrés’ fingers delicately came to rest on the back of his neck, unsteady breaths shaking his body as he otherwise remained frozen in place. He kept his eyes closed, the tender touch reassuringly caressing his skin still not enough to calm the echoes bouncing around in his head. 

This conversation never went in his favor, not that it had ever gotten this far. The words drowned in his throat, dismissed before he ever had the opportunity to admit them for himself. After all, his mother had certainly made her own assumptions and acted out on them, vindictive words crushing him before he’d ever understood why. His absentee father held on to frail _hope_ when he was around, but when the truth became irrefutable, he too had turned his back without a second glance. It was all coming down on him again, the feverish paranoia mixed with blinding terror, making his heart pound harder. He wanted to apologize, wanted to curse his own ignorance for revealing too much of himself. This was the most stable relationship he’d had, probably the first meaningful one in all his lonely years of life, and he’d blown it. His eyelid closed tighter, pain shooting from the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to lean into their goodbye, not when all he’d needed to do was keep his mouth quiet in his own shame.   
  
He could feel the weight of Andrés’ palm now, pulling him closer so that space was almost nonexistent between them. Though his own labored breathing drowned out the calmer noise of Andrés, surprisingly mindful as he continued to make his approach, Martín knew this was only the start of the rising storm. He might choose to be kinder, _might_ be willing to at least contain the true extent of his disdain, but this only ever went one way.   
  
“Look at me,” Andrés whispered, the command evident but mixed with something else he couldn’t recognize. He relaxed his squint, but it was still not enough to coax his eyes open again, not with the way his thoughts berated him, screaming at his own selfish need to be vulnerable. “Martín, por favor. Look at me.”   
  
The faint plea made the sob catch in his chest, as a knot bobbled in his throat. He needed half his hand to be able to count the times he’d heard the other man use those words, and certainly they had never been as tender as this. The vice grip around his heart started to come undone with it, and it was enough for him to open his eyes. Even pooled with tears, it was only enough to blur the image in front of him. The small, reassuring curve of his lip, coupled with his relaxed brow only made Martín’s tears flow easier down his face. He waited, wiping a few away with careful strokes of his thumb, but otherwise took his time to interrupt the release. “Mi ingeniero, my _friend_ ,” he started, slowly as though he already knew that one misstep would send shocks through Martín’s spine, finally enough to make his body respond and run away from the scene he’d created. “I won’t pretend to know who is responsible for this damage that has left you feeling so unworthy. But what I need you to know, Martín, is I could never think less of you for who you love.”   
  
“You—don’t have to—lie to me.”   
  
“Martín, you know I would not say anything I do not mean.”   
  
The reassurance removed the dull ache in his heart, as cries shattered his body making him fall forward. Instinctively, his arms wrapped around the middle of Andrés’ back, who only held him in turn. His face fell forward, tears staining the dorsilk. His wretched wail was the only sound between them, relief and anguish keeping him locked in the embrace. He _should_ be ashamed of his behavior. For the first time, he’d been willingly embraced after he’d admitted his poison. And, for once, someone had not immediately removed themselves from his life upon learning he was gay. Yet here he was, instead of falling to his knees and praising the acceptance Andrés offered him, ruining an expensive suit and bouncing the sound of his cries for anyone in their hotel to hear. But Andrés never faltered, one hand still firmly resting on the back of his neck while the other tried to soothe years of torment as it rubbed the back of his head. It was far more than he anticipated, when his jaw nearly cracked from tension of admitting his sin. It was more than he deserved, to be cradled in this embrace. 

He never moved, even as the hours rolled later into the night. With Andrés’ arms around him, Martín found he was still strong enough to stand. It was the first mercy he’d ever been gifted, and he’d treasure it more than every priceless artifact they’d ever encounter. When his tears dried up and crippling exhaustion overtook his vulnerable body, Andrés never left him. He sat on top of the blankets while Martin curled under and accepted the sanctuary. 

As he started drifting. something warm touched the deepest depths of his soul: an unspoken, hopeful sort of vow unlike anything he’d ever been allowed to reach for. 

_We will always fight for each other._

—   
  
Dust covered his face, the loud crack of stone resonating at the other end of his pickaxe. His face twisted in anger, nose scrunched behind the black scarf he’d been given to cover his mouth. _Berlín_ was out of his fucking mind if he thought this was the best use of his talents. Martín slammed the pointed pick edge against the chunk of rock once again, the line breaking further down now. He could just as easily have taken the axe to the back of his _former_ friend’s head, breaking it open enough to see if any brain remained left behind the pretty face. He turned the axe in his hands, palms already starting to be rubbed raw and calluses forming after only a few hours of work. He used the chiseled end to pry open the split, sending a chunk crashing to the floor in front of his feet. He knew Andrés would be angry, but logic should have dictated his place amongst the hostages. He had a very specific skill set, months of work poured into refining it. Now, his physical strength was his only asset, and it wouldn’t do. He couldn’t reach Andrés under the hardened exterior so long as he was confined to the tunnels. All of this wouldn’t mean a thing if he could not bring an end to the events he was terrified were to come.   
  
He screamed, releasing his frustration as he swung again. No one else around him had even made a dent in their sections, particularly Arturo who stopped every few moments to voice his displeasure. He loathed the group of young men carrying the broken pieces out in silver buckets, doing the dirty work while the rest of Sergio’s bandia controlled those left upstairs or aided in printing their notes. He stood a chance at being utilized the way he wanted, if the machine broke the way he planned. It was a waiting game until then, and it was just as likely they would pick anyone else to work on repairs. Another growl racked his body as he took a heavy swing. “ _Hijo de puta!_ ” He knew better than to expose their connection this early, opting to avoid his desire to curse the other man’s name. He knocked again, only to find his arms stuck midswing.   
  
The large leader, the man he believed was called Moscú, had one of his hands wrapped under both of Martín’s on the pickaxe. His grip was strong enough to keep Martín in place, refusing to let him continue to violently strike. Fatherly eyes searched his face, pooled with an almost ancient wisdom of a man who _knew_. Martín released the axe, taking the opportunity to run the sleeve of his red jumpsuit across his face. He didn’t need any of this. He regretted coming in here at all, especially as the man reached into his pocket and passed the miniature water bottle to him. He snatched it from his hands, pulling down the cover over his mouth to take a sip, letting a little trail of water drip down his chest to help cool him. Their eyes never broke, Martín knowing his were filled with righteous anger. Moscú took the empty bottle back from him, ever compassionate in how he held his ground, never looking to wound.   
  
“You’ll throw your back out if you swing like that.”   
  
“Good. No me importa una mierda. Maybe then, he’ll actually move me where he knows I belong. With the printers,” he snarled, reaching for the pickaxe again. Heat pooled at the top of his palm, searing pain left as Moscú pulled the axe too quickly from his grip once again.   
  
He pushed Martín forward, moving him out of earshot from the rest of the men working in the compressed area of the tunnel. He kept a firm hand on Martín’s shoulder, try as he might to rip away. One look made him stop, the same disciplined, furrowed brow his own father used to wear. He wanted to hiss, but instead offered the man a chance to speak his mind. “You know him, then?”   
  
Martín huffed through his nose, knowing the correct answer would be to deny the truth. To keep some semblance of his cover, he could argue that he _had_ known him. The twisted man he’d seen in the Mint was a picture of Andrés in a heist at his absolute worst. He had only seen him like this once, and his lack of control had ultimately led to his arrest. Martín would not allow there to be worse consequences at the end of this one. “I know him. I know him very well.” _Intimately_ , his brain taunted, making his fist curl inside his pocket.   
  
He hated as he watched the pieces start to come together in Moscú’s head. He shouldn’t have said anything, not when emotions ranged from annoyed to sympathetic. The man in front of him must have had his own tragic tale to tell, his facial twitches betraying his past. He didn’t need the advice of his elders, but as Moscú’s mouth popped open slowly, he knew he wouldn’t get a say. “I thought I’d avoided this conversation when I only had a son. But, you don’t catch men like that unless you give them something to chase.”   
  
Martín’s jaw might as well have been wired shut, his mind screaming he should deny that being any part of his purpose in being here. Andrés had made it very clear what he meant to him, pretty words meant to be a poetic goodbye fitting of the cinema and nothing else. He had one purpose, one carefully laid design in propelling this heist forward. Instead, he turned on his heel and picked up the discarded pickaxe on his way back to his section of the tunnel.   
  
When morning broke, they were summoned away from the grueling work he’d been assigned to through the first night. The other Serbian led them to rejoin the group, as the miner’s son passed out what looked to be soggy sandwiches and bottles of water to each of them. Martín took his, weary muscles coaxing his stomach to beg for sustenance. He knew he might be forced to eat if he did not do so willingly, which served as another incentive to nibble on the sandwich. He kept his knees pulled to his chest, probably not the most relaxing position but it wasn’t as though he cared. Nervous women huddled close together, the men from the tunnels spread out as they stretched. Arturo sat next to Mónica, and Martín forced himself to look away as the vile little man tried to drape himself around her. He hated how easy it was to believe what he’d heard only a few hours ago—Arturo’s pathetic attempts at pleading with one of the students to retrieve a phone from his office. No doubt in his mind was left that the phone the gang had confiscated was the one he did not carefully guard, using only to call his _girlfriend_ while masking the truth from his wife. He guessed Arturo had children with his wife, and knew he had one on the way. Still, he’d been all too willing to let a child suffer if discovered, but would not make a move for the phone himself. He could spit in his face if only allowed close enough to do so. The man was a rat and he wished he could force his friend to see that.   
  
She still seemed to be refusing the comfort he offered, only for him to force his hand on her sleeved forearm. He knew he would be of no use, forced onto his ass before he could push the man off her. It wasn’t his place anyway. They were together, in a sense. Even if the bastard child didn’t further complicate things between them, his interference would probably not be well received, despite his best intentions. Instead, he scowled, tempted to lay on his back and hopefully sleep until they had moved past all this. If Andrés was certain he should stay in the tunnels, then he’d be disobedient enough to do nothing but try and fall into a deep slumber. He looked over his shoulder, making sure he wouldn’t fall on top of anyone else, when Arturo’s loud whisper made him sit upright, certain the man had made his way over to him down the line. He swatted his hand only for his eyes to find Arturo’s head pressed against the wall, two people still between them, with his eyes trained on Mónica as he pitifully started to beg for her forgiveness. He pulled his hands over his eyes, trying to release the tension from the man’s loud chatter. Everyone would be able to hear his desperate excuses and identify them for what they were, apart from the one person who mattered.   
  
He watched his friend’s head bobble forward, lips pursed tightly together as her eyes glazed over. He could hear her breathing from where he sat, shivering while she listened to his empty promises. A better man might have stepped up and pulled his friend away, but he knew from experience she was the only one who could put an end to things. He just actually deserved the far worse treatment she received; for while Andrés had hurt him in their goodbye, he was never manipulative or emotionally abusive. His stomach felt as though he had swallowed acid, having to watch the display she didn’t deserve. But, with the stress of the heist coupled with a baby who needed a father on the way, of course she would be tempted to eat all of this up.   
  
“We can call the police and guide them through a raid. I have a phone in my coat in my office. I don’t know how to get to it.”   
  
Martín’s skin crawled, knuckles whitening from how hard he clenched his fists. Of course he was trying to soften her enough to encourage her to take the phone. Naturally, he would do nothing to put himself in the line of danger, even if it meant that his new baby might also suffer the consequences. This man, the picturesque idea of who his parents probably had always wanted him to be, was completely spineless. Each word from Arturo’s mouth was meant to frame Mónica’s decision for her, as though it were her own.   
  
They were all called to attention in two lines, and it was only then that Martín even noticed Andrés had entered the room. Yet another opportunity to prove the depths of his devotion, and his actual talents, was going to pass him by as his attention kept being called back to Mónica. His steadfast convictions pounded in his head, blinding him to anything else in his surroundings. She needed him, because no one else who might have overheard what Arturo had to say would put themselves in harms way. He’d made a vow to himself that he would protect her, just as much as he intended to help Andrés. He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to focus as others around him were picked to be searched. The one he immediately recognized as Denver was complying with Mónica’s wishes to be taken to join the women, and he needed to be quick. He wouldn’t have long until he was forced to the tunnels again and would no longer be able to come to her defense.   
  
He looked around the room, Andrés, Denver, and the other young boy gone now as the defiant woman he thought he recognized as Tokio and Helsinki led the rest of their search. When nothing turned up, they started to be dismissed to their work stations. Gripping at the left side of his chest, Martín moaned in his best display of pain. Dialed up dramatics were his only hope at remaining separated from the rest of the group being sent back to work, and he whined once again as Helsinki came to his side.   
  
“What’s going on?” 

  
“My chest hurts,” he whimpered, glancing up at him. He stumbled, head rolling as though a sudden dizziness were settling in on him.   
  
Whereas Helsinki looked at him with more concern, Tokio only glanced over to show her irritation. She took a moment to finish sending the other hostages back to their duty stations, ignoring him. Once everyone else was gone from the room, she pushed her hand roughly against his shoulder, forcing him to stand straight. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it’s time to get back to work.”   
  
Martín slumped to the floor then, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He moaned, low and desperate as he continued the charade. Tokio took a knee next to him, picking up his left hand in hers before she checked for a pulse. Luckily for him, exhaustion worked in his favor and left the beat a little faster than it should have been. When her hand next moved to rub just next to the corner of his eye, running over his brow, he allowed her to slowly coax his eyes back open. “Back to work?” He whispered, between shallow breaths.   
  
“We can’t send him back to the tunnels like that,” she said, her head turned towards her companion. 

“You don’t give the orders.” 

Martín coughed, rolling his head as he tried to highlight his willingness to work despite their protests. When he tried forcing himself to sit up, Tokio’s hand pressed him back to the floor, now reluctant to let him do too much too soon.   
  
“If he dies from exhaustion, how do you think that fits in with _El Profesor’s_ plans? Take him to the room with the other women until he’s recovered.”   
  
He had to fight a visible exhale, the rush of relief that came with her command to Helsinki. The man’s hand reached out, gradually helping him back to sit up against the wall. Water splashed over him carelessly as the capless bottle was placed in his hands. “Drink,” Helsinki instructed.   
  
He slowly guided the bottle to his mouth, taking small sips as told. He started slowly blinking his eyes, as though encouraging his vision to come back to him. Another one of the less than appealing sandwiches was placed in his hand next, and he mouthed a small “Gracias, señora Tokio.” She only nodded at him, before turning to leave him in Helsinki’s charge. He knew he had to use his time perfectly, since he had no way to know just how long it would take Mónica to make her move for the phone, but his recovery could not seem miraculous either. 

When he finished several bites of food, he pushed the remainder into his pocket. “I’m ready,” he yawned, head lolling forward.   
  
His arm was placed over the back of the Serb’s neck, who wrapped his arm supportingly around Martín’s waist. He hoped he stood a chance at getting in the room before Mónica even attempted to take the phone, which was his best chance at protecting her. He wished he could have done anything in the moment Arturo encouraged her to follow through with his reckless plan, as though it would be the switch to commit all his devotion to her over his wife. If he ever got the chance, he’d deck the man repetitively until he knew to keep his distance from his friend.   
  
“Gracias, Helsinki,” he said, still hunched over as they walked. He tried to limit his words, knowing that a sudden rush of strength would only give the ruse away. “I must have worked too hard on the tunnels. I’m not built for manual labor.”  
  
“You can rest a few hours. Then you’ll go back.”   
  
“Understood,” he answered with a little nod.   
  
They finished walking up the stairs, turning down one of the halls. The curve of the wall blocked off the view from downstairs, leaving him blind until they were behind its cover. He shrunk further, trying to make himself less noticeable when he recognized Andrés a few feet ahead, walking in their direction. His teeth scratched his tongue, quickly trying to think of a reason that would suffice why he had suddenly become an invalid.   
  
“What happened here?”   
  
“He collapsed.”   
  
Martín glanced up at him finally, able to see the way Andrés pursed his lips, his doubt evident across his face as he glared down at him. Martín kept in control all the same, knowing he could not afford to lose his commitment to his plan now. He had already made his decisions to prioritize Mónica’s welfare, and even as the little vein in Andrés’ forehead constricted, shoulders stiffened, he knew he could not change his mind. “Ah, unable to burden the taxing labor of the tunnels? I should have found somewhere else for you. I’ll take him from here, Helsinki.”   
  
Forced to stand on his own, his hand reached out to grab the wall for support. His knees buckled, knocking against each other as he refused to assume his full height. It was only then that the hints of something darker were noted on Andrés’ face. Though the muscles behind pale skin were all tightened, jaw clenched and body poised, his eyes betrayed his heavy distress. The thump in Martín’s chest became dangerously slow and weak, fear sending his thoughts spiraling out of his control. There were seldom things to cause this kind of reaction, and the one he was most afraid of was likely the truth.   
  
When Helsinki’s footsteps could no longer be heard walking down the other end of the hall, Martín threw himself forward, hands trying to grip at the hood of Andrés’ jumpsuit. Far too quick for him, Andrés took a step to the side almost sending Martín crashing to the floor. He caught himself, palms falling flat to the ground as he pushed back up. Turning quickly, he glared violently at his friend and demanded, “Where is Mónica?”   
  
“You made a friend? That would be endearing if you weren't _wasting_ my time with your little act. You always proved to be a better actor than that, I'm almost disappointed. Go back to your tasks before you fail that too."

Martín growled, keeping his body low as he waited for another opportunity to strike. Andrés was too alert to him now, his chance missed to gain the upperhand in their encounter. He was wasting precious seconds anyway. Despite the heat pooling in Andrés’ face now, the look in his eyes hadn’t budged. He refused to look directly at him, hints of guilt now becoming more obvious. “I’m not doing a damned thing you ask until you tell me where she is.”   
  
“When have you ever known me to take orders from you? Get back to the tunnels. _Ahora._ ”   
  
“It was _my_ idea. Punish _me_.”   
  
The scorching heat rising off Andrés’ body threatened to ignite him, the fire blazing until nothing was left but pieces of charcoal. The distance was nonexistent between them, chests knocking as each tried to control the tense situation. "You should remember I know you inside out when you think you can _lie_ to me." The anger burning in Andrés’ dark eyes was meant to intimidate Martín, but he knew he had something far more important than the frayed knots of their former relationship to save.   
  
“Tell me where she is!” 

He felt the vice hold around his shoulder, Andrés’ hand slamming him back against the wall before he’d seen him make his move.”Since you insist on knowing things that don't concern you, she's being _taken care of_ right now, and you should behave if you don't want to be next.”  
  
Protective anger curled hot in his gut, disappointment and determination burning like an inferno he was unable to control. Martín shoved against his chest with both hands, forceful enough to knock the other man back, Andrés’ eyes widening in his initial shock. “What did you do!”   
  
Andrés said nothing, but refused to meet his eye focusing instead on rubbing out the creases in his uniform. He tightened his jaw, sullen eyes still refusing to look back at Martín. His own sweaty palms grabbed his pounding head, trying to think clearly enough to form a new plan. The words had left him powerless, crushing what now seemed to be an illusion of the man he loved. Bitter tears stung his eyes, nostrils flaring as he tried to quickly grasp the bleak reality he now lived in. “¿Pero tú de qué vas? _You_ don't play God! _You_ wouldn't rip two lives away like this!”   
  
“Have you always been this naive? You _think_ you know what I’m capable of, when you should _know_ how wrong you are. She had her chance to surrender that phone and now there are consequences.”   
  
Martín scoffed, slamming him back against the opposing wall. He bared his teeth, snarling with the ferocity of a vicious, mad dog. “Then deliver your consequences yourself! You’re not getting your hands dirty because you know this is wrong!” Martín’s fist coiled, knuckles hitting against the sides of his throat. He pressed harder, frantic to break through to him. They might only have seconds left now and there was nothing he could do to protect Mónica, so little left to try and stop Andrés from crossing the line he could not come back from. If he failed now, he knew there was nothing left worth salvaging of the man before him. Bitter tears turned to anguish, broken sobs threatening to shatter him and his efforts to do anything for either of them. “Andrés! Tell me!”  
  
“I gave Denver the order. I didn’t follow them.”   
  
“Do better than that!” Martín snapped at his pitiful attempt. His fist pounded the wall next to the man’s head, before he stumbled back releasing him. They were wasting time now, and the deep look of sorrow had returned to Andrés eyes. 

Andrés said nothing, regret and shame on heavy display but still not enough to make him move from where Martín had left him pinned to the wall. He felt hazy, as though all that remained was to wait for the confirmation of his failures, for proof he had failed to be enough of a man yet again. Desperation plagued his heart, clawing at him and ready to reap destruction. “You say you know me—but _I_ know _you_ inside out, too. No one finds life more sacred than you. Andrés, please.” 

For a moment, his last attempt seemed to have failed like the rest. His knees started to give out from under him, threatenIng to leave him discarded in the middle of the floor. As though nothing more than a trick of the light, Andrés’ eyes gleamed with tears that disappeared when Martín blinked his own away. 

“Follow me,” he finally ordered, leading them back down the hall he’d just come from. It was too much hope that it would be this easy, but it was all Martín could hold onto. There were no other options, no way out of this other than to cling to the slimming chance they would still make it on time. He prayed Denver shared his father’s apparent delicate heart and would be unable to follow through with the order the way Berlín wanted him to. He didn’t want to think of what the alternative meant for Mónica, or even for Andrés.   
  
_Crack._  
  
The whip-like sound broke the silence between them, the noise eerily recognizable coming from only a few doors down. Martín tried not to crumble then, the pain in his chest shooting daggers down his body that made him double in the middle. He had failed, the vindictive voices in his head sang between the ringing in his ears. He’d failed Mónica and her unborn child, ripped cruelly by his inability to act sooner. When they pushed open the door, the last of her life would have already left her, blood stained across the floor. He felt sick just picturing the sight, uncertain how he would be able to stomach bearing witness to it. He barely took notice of how Andrés had stumbled next to him, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. No longer was the man he once knew standing by his side, leaving behind the one far too content to play executioner. It had never gotten this far before, Martín’s guidance or Andrés’ own principles enough to bring him back before he went too far. Now, his virtuous victim had left them both with a debt they could never repay.   
  
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he found the strength to finally open the door. Sorrow mixed with an unexpected rush of immediate relief at the sight in front of him. He ran forward, before he fell onto his knees and clutched Mónica in his arms. It took a moment before her face buried in the place between his neck and shoulder, soaking the jumpsuit as she wept in his arms. He glanced down, searching for any sign of injury when the blackened round painting the tile next to her came into view. He whipped his head around to look at Denver, his gun now discarded in the sink. The young man’s hand ran through the hairs at the back of his head as he paced, overcome with terror. Martín saw the tears flooding Denver’s eyes, the heavy weight of his actions settling in as his body shook from jagged breaths.   
  
“You’re okay, shh, you’re okay,” he whispered against Mónica’s hair, feeling her fingers digging further into the material covering his chest. She pulled him closer, seeking the comfort he willingly provided. “ _Tranquilo._ You’re okay, Mónica.” He cradled the back of her head, pulling her tighter until she could be certain no harm would come.   
  
Andrés remained pressed against the door, but for the most part Martín chose to ignore him. It had almost been too late, and his own body was racked with guilt. He couldn’t display his own tremors or let Mónica notice how shallow his breath was, or he would never be able to calm her down. He didn’t need to be told that this amount of stress would not be good for the child growing inside her, and the last thing she needed was another trauma ripping her apart. He kissed her temple, whispering more words again and again until her rapid gasps began to slow, sniffling tears all that remained.   
  
“She needs a place to recover where she can lie down and sleep,” he demanded, still not turning his head to look at the man standing a few feet behind him.   
  
“You don’t give out orders.” 

He didn’t miss how Andrés’ voice seemed to break as he spoke, the resilience he wore under his persona beginning to break. Martín’s fingers trembled as they rubbed reassuring circles on Mónica’s upper back, the faint impression perhaps the lurking monster had been subdued and a more humane piece of the man he knew returning to him. It shouldn’t have mattered to him, when he was the cause for the events that had almost occurred—but his faithless heart still latched onto it all the same.   
  
“She can’t go back to work!”   
  
“She can’t rejoin the others!” Frustration was picking up once again in his tone, the mask overtaking the man he knew. He heard the angered huff, followed by a far more composed, “Word will spread about her act of defiance and inspire more. Denver, lock our _friend_ in one of the vaults. I hope you can take care of a live pet, since you’re incapable of playing executioner.”   
  
“Next time you want someone killed, do it yourself Berlín.”   
  
Martín smirked, listening to Denver stand his ground. It might not go without punishment for the young man, but Andrés needed to know he could not give such atrocious demands to others. He helped Mónica to her feet, hands holding her face gently. He leaned her head forward, placing a tender kiss on top of her forehead. Denver pulled back on his arm, working to release the two of them, but only made Mónica clutch tighter to his arm. “Go with him.”   
  
“What about you?” She asked, eyes nervously fluttering to glance at Andrés.   
  
He squeezed her hand reassuringly once more before finally taking a step away. “I’ll be fine.” The promise might prove to be empty, and she seemed to suspect the same with the way her hand still reached out for him. Against her will, Denver grabbed her arm and started to guide her from the room. He shouldn’t have grinned proudly at the disgusted look the man gave Andrés, but it was better than some of the alternatives.   
  
He’d done what he could for Mónica. Another opportunity would not present itself, and he had to hope that she learned to keep her head down for the rest of the heist. Away from Arturo’s influence, she would have no reason to try anything as foolish again and the rest would hopefully do her good. He squared his shoulders, head held high as he finally looked directly at Andrés. The air in the room was strangely calm when he knew it shouldn’t have been. He couldn’t trust the lull, knowing all too well that lines had been crossed. The display was only made worse because Denver had been privy to it, and though he might not have processed all that Martín’s presence meant, suspicion would only continue to grow around the two of them. It was yet another crack in Berlín’s control over the unfolding events and Martín knew there was nothing left to do until the storm hit. He wouldn’t waver, wouldn’t give Andrés the satisfaction of seeing him recede now. His hand had been forced, first by Arturo’s cowardly actions and further by Andrés’ mercilessness. His best laid intentions for infiltrating the Mint were over, and the sense of failure even in the wake of one good deed threatened to tear him apart at the seams. 

Still, regret never came even as the stillness in the room began to shift when Andrés took a swift step forward. 


	8. Heist Day 2, 1:15pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *enters the room tiptoeing* Hiiiii everyone!!!
> 
> No you're not dreaming, it's a completely out of the blue & very late update of TOS, yes indeed! I'm soooo so sorry for the delay, life has been extremely chaotic at first because I was moving, and then because my mother got into a really bad accident and I've spent the last months helping at home and going to the hospital for her reeducation ;_; We planned this story in a way we didn't expect to have have too many delays but well— life doesn't care about well thought plans!
> 
> I'm very thankful for all the comments we got, for the people who reached out here, on tumblr and on twitter to ask if there would be new updates and ask about my well being. You're all gems and we're lucky to have friends and readers so adorable! <3
> 
> This story is entirely planned, and despite life being still extremely busy for Myra and I, we will finish it in time.
> 
> Thank for your patience, and with that, I leave you with Andrés~ 
> 
> Cassy x

He had woken up terribly early, trashing in the uncomfortably warm bunk he was sleeping in, body heat trapped within the cramped cell he shared with two other inmates. The thick smell of urine and sweat had been lingering for days, summer making the terrible cocktail of odors barely liveable. When snores had risen from the bed above him, Andrés suddenly hadn’t been able to take it anymore. Truth was, he had been growing restless after three months enclosed between these walls. The soft murmurs of the guards in the hallway had reached him, whispering plans of escape to Andrés’ ears, desperate for some alone time. 

Maybe, just maybe, violently hitting the upper bed mattress to provoke the tall man sleeping on it hadn’t been his best idea. With his face carved from stone and his arms the size of Andrés’ head, the idiot going by the name of Hugo had slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He had rolled when they hit the floor, kicking his attacker and lashing with all the strength he had, digging his fingers into the man’s face to break the hold he had on him, the need to protect his eyes superior to the will to break Andrés’ nose. The little time won had been enough for him to kick Hugo between his legs, under the laughing cheers of their third roommate, woken up by the fight.

Nerves buzzing, Andrés almost hadn’t registered when the guards entered the room, not with Hugo collapsing down on top of him heavily. Pain had exploded near his left temple when the man’s elbow had collided into his face and Andrés had smiled ferociously, blood trickling down his forehead where the skin had been cut. The buzzing under his skin roared to life and Andrés threw himself at the other man, locking his forearm under the man’s throat to put pressure against the _oh so_ fragile trachea. His left hand clawed at Hugo’s face, restraining him from biting Andrés’ arm and helping with the choking.

When he had finally been taken away from the cell under the pitiful threats Hugo croaked from his spot on the ground, Andrés had laughed. Fresh air had hit his lungs and he had savoured the crisp sensation, knowing his actions should bring silent days alone.

Isolation hadn’t been his destination, sadly.

After a short journey to the prison’s infirmary, Andrés found himself stuck in a depressing office covered with orange washed-up carpet instead of the grey walls he wished for. The ceiling wasn’t spared, Andrés remarked, and his nose twitched because of the accumulated dust and lack of decorative taste. His inspection didn’t last, the bleary lights flickering gloomily in the windowless room not enough to hold his attention much longer. Without anything to distract himself with, Andrés finally accepted to lower his head back to fix the blonde man he had mostly been ignoring since he entered the room.

“Prison isn’t easy to navigate and I heard you don’t talk with anyone around here. Not the guards, not your cellmates: no one. I’m guessing you didn’t live your whole life like this — how was your life before all this?” The young therapist asked in French. A waterfall of messy straw-like hair hid his face as he talked, the man clearly too busy scribbling down some idiotic notes about Andrés’ sarcastic behaviour to have the decency to look at him. 

It allowed more freedom for observation at least, something Andrés chose to focus on for the time being, though there wasn’t much to note. The kid’s clothes seemed out of place, a colourful t-shirt imprinted with some curvy slogan loosely thrown over jeans — nothing Andrés thought appropriate for the job. There was no ring on his finger to indicate a spouse. His desk lacked personal items outside a photo that was hidden from Andrés’ wandering eyes. If he had to summarize the man, Andrés would have settled for the words ‘lamentable from head to toe’. 

“No one here is smart enough to hold a conversation,” Andrés said instead, setting an elbow on the desk and swirling the cup of water he had been allowed to have, all without taking his eyes off the other man. “But I’ll be sure to leave a Yelp review online once I leave this place since my opinion is _so_ valuable.”

“You also refused to talk to a lawyer, to participate in group therapy, or to engage with other inmates here.” A sympathetic wince was trained toward him but Andrés ignored it carefully. “Your behaviour has been noted Andrés and I’m worried abo—”

“It’s Fonollosa for you,” he interjected, sitting back in his chair, crossing his legs with his ankle resting against his knee. He lounged on the uncomfortable chair as much as he could, taking space as if he was the one making decisions in the room. He gathered his most arrogant façade for the occasion, curious to see how the young therapist would react to his posture. It didn’t disappoint, the awkward rustle of documents being moved around tipped him off, the other man’s discomfort obvious for anyone looking close enough. 

“Well— _Monsieur_ Fonollosa — what about your family then? Do you miss them?”

At the mention of his family, Andrés’ mouth sealed itself shut. He unlocked his tensed jaw before meticulously hiding his seemingly calm face from the therapist’s eyes. Instead, he studied his cuticles as he thought about the best way to answer to that low blow. 

Luckily, if one would call that lucky, Andrés had done time back when he had still been young and in-experimented. He knew how these questions went, and how to answer them — or in this case, not answer them. Prison hadn’t been a recurring thing of his past but Andrés had been confronted with the harsh reality of providing for his little brother, once he and Sergio had found themselves orphans. For one thing, he hadn’t known how expensive medical treatments were back then. For another, food and shelter hadn’t been his priority, which meant sleeping in forced cars and stealing what he needed to survive. 

Oh, Sergio’s father had taught him how to be good at the job before passing away, and it had been invaluable teaching. Nevertheless, his lessons lacked one important chapter: how to stay off police radars. Most things in life had to be experimented to be learnt, and mistakes were the best source of growth as much in thievery as with any other job. Back then, Andrés had mostly been locked in juvie and his stays had never been as long as this one, here in the Remand Prison of Nice. 

Still, it had been enough to master the fundamentals. He knew how these places worked, or at least how to adapt and give the change to survive. To appear dangerous enough for other inmates not to cross him, and enough of a lost cause for untrained therapists to put him in little diagnosis boxes, deeming him ‘crazy’ enough to stop wasting his time.

This one was young, though, and hadn’t learnt the lesson yet.

“ _Non_ ,” he answered back, the foreign yet familiar language coming back easily, even after months spent not practicing it. 

Learning French during his teenage years had been out of necessity but it had proved useful many times in his life. The first time he heard French had been in San Sebastian, the hospital staff chatting softly in the white cold hallways, intermingled with Spanish and Basque. Sergio had been a sick child but bright— so, so very bright — and witty under his shy demeanours. Swimming in so many languages had been a golden opportunity for him, one Andrés hadn’t been blessed with before their mother was hospitalized. He had been embarrassed to be taught by small and sickly Sergio but, once Andrés had caught up with his dear little brother’s knowledge, it had become a new weapon for himself. Sneaking in outside of visiting hours became suddenly easier when one could argue or flirt his way in, after all. 

“No you don’t miss them, or no you don’t have family?”

“I was born in a _chou_ , as you say here,” Andrés said when it became clear the therapist was waiting for a better answer, “so of course there isn’t any family to miss my splendid person.” He grinned at the slight exasperation he detected, the kid not practiced enough to silence his expressions completely. It was easy to push the caricature a bit more with such an easy target. A pencil was stolen from the incompetent mental health professional’s desk and he examined the dull lead before glancing up and locking eyes with the young man. “Truly, it’s a blessing for me. Less people to ask desperately for my attention, you know?” He didn’t miss a beat before adding in his most judgmental voice, “Oh — no, you probably don’t, not with how you look.”

“No parents?” the man questioned next as he stopped writing and crossed his arms in front of him, “No brother, or sister?”

He missed Sergio. He missed the child he grew up with as much as the awkward man his brother had become. They hadn’t talked a lot these past few months, not with Sergio busy with his research in Estonia and himself with forming Martín so he could face all the challenges of the job. It was the price he had to pay for keeping the different parts of his life separate. And it was hard, missing Sergio, when a simple phone call could soothe the misery of that absence. It would be so easy to ask for his rights and simply reach out to his little brother; to hear his voice filled with excitement as he talked about the plan; to enjoy the annoyed intonation when he would say Andrés’ name when asked about his brother’s love life; or the way Sergio would laugh at one of his latest stunt, amused despite himself, as he always was. 

Andrés knew better though. He could endure his brother’s anger, but he never stood a chance against his disappointment. Getting locked up as stupidly as he had would, without a doubt, be a source of unnecessary stress for his brother. How was he supposed to explain he would be free if his instincts hadn’t failed him for the first time in forever and he hadn’t been so certain one of his teammate was more crooked than incompetent? The man had been introduced by Shana, Andrés’ latest girlfriend; and the fool had played _Romeo_ with Martín during the whole operation instead of focusing on the work at hand. When it had been time to open the vault of the ancient mansion they were robbing, he had been so busy fighting with the man over something idiotic he had missed Shana’s strange behaviour the whole day. When she voluntarily tripped the secondary alarm waiting for them, alerting the police of their trespassing, it had been too late to save the plan. 

Sergio would probably shake his head with disbelief and frown unhappily hearing about it — not that Andrés would be able to see him, but a lifetime was more than enough to learn these things about someone. His aggravation would be worse by the minute and when he would hear about his following fight with Martín over Shana instead of running away immediately, it wouldn’t just be consternation. There would be all this hurt underneath, worse than any anger. He wouldn’t care that Andrés had realised too late how foolish the fight had been, and how he had sent Martín away while he stayed back to distract the police — no, Sergio would try to fix the situation instead, even though he had no power over it; thus, he’d lose precious time in the Mint planification because of Andrés self-indulgent heist.

“I know how family works,” Andrés mocked.

“What about friends, lovers? There is probably someone—” and the man’s lips twisted distastefully over the word, “—waiting for you outside?”

“ _Des amis_?” he scoffed, “ _Non_ , friends are ordinary things made for ordinary people with ordinary problems. I don’t burden myself with friendship.” By force of habit, Andrés tried to push his fingers into his hair to accentuate the disdain he was trying to convey with his lies, but his skin only met the fuzzy short hairs that were barely starting to grow again. Instead of mourning the loss, Andrés curled his fingers around the pencil and slid it behind one of his ears. “Women though,” he answered with a seducing smile he usually reserved for his conquests, “it’s hard not to miss them. Of course, I wouldn’t take anyone to my bed _here_. I have standards you know.” With another sleight of hands, the pencil sharpener was in his possession. Andrés levelled a mocking gaze at the therapist as he remarked, “Or maybe you don’t, once again.”

“A girlfriend is waiting for you then,” the man assessed, ignoring his insult. “What kind of person is she? You seem — difficult to please with all these ‘standards’ you’re talking about.”

The question opened a door Andrés had tried to ignore and his expectant smile broke in half the instant he remembered no one was waiting for him. 

Sometimes, Sergio gave him these looks that were just short of outright pity. He probably didn’t mean to be this insulting but the judgement in his brother’s eyes whenever he met one of the women Andrés dated was not something easy to shake off. It made him reluctant to trust his brother with the women who shared his life. It was lucky, surely, he didn’t waste time introducing the last one. Still, he needed something Sergio couldn’t give him. They were blood, and Andrés would choose his brother over anyone, every time; still, Sergio’s affection for him was secure. It was known with years of sleepless nights, with gentle games, violent disputes and cruel sacrifices.

In the wash of bitter self-loathing and fury Shana’s betrayal had provoked, in the wake of his dispute with Martín and the carved-out loneliness Andrés now experimented in prison for the first time, he realised — he wanted to be wanted. He always knew that of course, always loved the attention, the seduction. But he wanted to be loved— as much as he wanted to find someone to cherish in turn; he wanted to be desired so desperately it consumed everything else in its wake; and as miserable as the thought felt right now, he wanted to be kissed and held when life eroded his will and he couldn’t stand alone anymore. 

Shana hadn’t been that. They only fought and fucked, any romance coming from him shut down with a laugh. From somebody else though, that feeling would mean the world. It was the only thing Andrés couldn’t steal, couldn’t buy, that any riches couldn’t compare to. Somebody who wanted him despite his flaw, who wanted him in all ways, who understood him and loved him— 

Martín told him once ‘ _You go through women like some change cars_ ’. He said it slowly, like he didn’t insult him but informed him kindly about something Andrés couldn’t see. Maybe he asked for too much from the people he chose to love. Maybe he didn’t know how to be good to anyone, was too demanding, didn’t fit with any woman he met for a reason.

“What do you want to know? My standards?” Andrés drawled. He stared at the newly sharpened pencil and snapped the end of it against the desk to break it. The therapist couldn’t hide his flinch and Andrés’ lips curled in distaste as he started honing the lead again. “I thought I made it clear you are _not_ my type.”

“This is not what — I’m _asking_ if you have anyone in the world outside these walls Monsieur Fonollosa. Avoiding the question won’t change the answer.”

It was curious, the things that became important when stuck with nothing but yourself for company for _months_. Some thoughts weren’t — humiliating, exactly, but they stung like hot and bitter ash in his throat. It didn’t stop Andrés from wondering if Martin would still be waiting for him once he was free or if, like everyone else in his life, he would have left. Nothing was keeping him at Andrés’ side after all. Martín had every right to go back to his former life. They were co-workers first, friends second, and even if working together was _so easy_ , it made sense for Martín to stop wasting his time with him. Maybe that devotion wasn’t his to keep, either, and Martín turned a new leaf by running toward better horizons with the money of their most recent heist.

 _Or_ , the police had caught him too, and his engineer had sacrificed the past few years of his life and hours of sleep to their friendship for nothing.

Andrés blinked and watched his own hands, trying to push past the weird fluttery sensation in his stomach — not butterflies, really, except if butterflies’ wings grew sharp cutting edges during his stay in prison. He recognized what it was, though he rarely felt it before.

He missed Martín.

It was stupid, or at least it felt like it. There was just _something_ about Martín — something Andrés couldn’t place that left him momentarily speechless whenever they interacted. Once upon a time, he might have run away from it. Keep friends close, enemies closer, that was the common rule. However, Andrés had always preferred to push people away and keep them at arm’s length instead. He was too aware people who knew where your heart was could use a knife and carve you out. 

Prison made him rethink that approach. He never missed anyone outside of his brother, never expected anyone to wait for him, not even his wives, and it changed things. It changed _Andrés._ It was a bone-deep certainty ringing through him then: Martín and him were meant to see each other again. 

“You’re right,” Andrés said, “avoiding things won’t change the truth.” He would get out of here sooner rather than later, because he had to know he had some place to go home to. Because, somehow in the past nearly three years of their friendship, Martín had become something stable in his chaotic life, something he wanted to come back to. Never mind their fight about Shana; never mind the harsh words exchanged about their respective love lives before the police came; soon, he would slot back in Martín's life and never leave. “But talking with you won’t either.”

In a flash, Andrés stabbed the pencil in the therapist’s hand, a bit more vigorously than was strictly necessary for his purpose. The scream it won him — choked off halfway through — was enough to alert the guards waiting outside the room. One grabbed his hands and forced them behind his back while the second, a woman surprisingly strong, pushed his head violently against the wood of the desk. 

“Five days of isolation for you, Fonollosa,” was what she said, and Andrés’ face twisted into a scowl instead of breaking with the satisfied smile that should have blossomed at the words. 

“Lead the way, _princesse,_ ” Andrés quipped as he let himself be dragged away without resistance to the small room that would be his alone for the next few days.

_Finally._

———

Andrés’ head pounded. His fucking hands trembled behind his back where he hid them. He wished he could blame his latest injection of Tramadol for the tremors but his heart wouldn’t let him believe this little lie, not with how fast it was banging in his chest. Something inside of him was coming loose now Denver had left with the hostage, but he didn’t know exactly _what_ he was feeling in the midst of what had happened.

He had backed away. 

Martín had fought for _that_ woman, had done everything he could to ensure she would be safe. He had _lied_ to him and cried in relief for her. Andrés didn’t know the kind of person Mónica was, nor how she could drive someone like his best friend to this degree of protectiveness in so little time, but it added to the unnamed bottled up feelings raging inside him. Emotions usually tethered him to reality, though that word had little meaning during a heist this big; now they were slowly threatening to unravel him. 

There was _fury_ in him, but it was distant. It had been simmering since Martín showed up, building up with every little act of defiance. Their confrontation in the hallway had thrown gasoline to that fire, but he hadn’t needed to consider anything too dire to shut him up and cement his authority over the hostages. Not until that discarded phone made an appearance. The heat of his rage had carried him through the order he gave Denver, through Martín contesting his decisions yet again, and Andrés’ furor had been scorching enough for him to believe he had seared his heart away from Martín’s demands. Foolish of him. It only had taken his friend screaming at him, frayed and scared and so very frantic, for the heat of his anger to quell.

Mostly he felt — shaken. 

Numb. 

And there was all this _hurt_ underneath, next to a worse kind of wrath directed at himself for trying to — what? Protect the people under his command and his brother’s plan? Make the hard choices no one else would dare to make, so no one would contest his authority and the hostages would behave? As ruthless as his order had been, it had been needed to ensure they would all stay safe: the hostages shouldn’t believe it would be easy to get the upper hand or they would have a mutiny to deal with.

That wasn’t all though.

His current agitation was caused by Martín’s presence, by the weight of his gaze judging his actions, like a cleaver ready to fall heavily whenever Andrés made a choice that disappointed him. For the first time since what felt like forever, Andrés wanted him as far away from him as Martín could be. He needed Martín out of the Mint as much as he needed air, needed to neutralise him before it became obvious that Andrés couldn’t lead with him around. And he needed that _now_.

The fastest way would be to switch Martín and Mónica’s fates.

He felt himself vacillate at the thought, attempting to convince himself that there was a chance Martín would stop fighting his decisions, even the more gruesome ones, like Mónica’s — that there was a chance Andrés would get to die here like he had planned all along, like he _wished_ he could. There was some low note of satisfaction at knowing Martín wouldn’t allow it, at knowing his friend so intimately that Andrés could predict the violence of his refusal. At being wanted so much even Death should be fought if it meant keeping _him_.

But he couldn’t do that — not to Martín. Executing a hostage would surely damage his leadership but everyone here had personal stake and needed the heist to go well. They would learn to live with the blood price. Executing Martín—

Losing Martín would break him beyond anything imaginable. Just the thought of seeing the corpse of the man who came here as something like a friend, like something more, something they could never be—

Andrés would rather let everyone else burn.

Did that make it the right choice or the wrong one? He didn’t trust his instincts anymore, but the hold Martín had over him was dangerous. There was nothing much for it. Andrés was out of options, other than having him killed or having him thrown out. Either way, it would be the cruellest repayment of Martín’s unwavering faith and love.

Andrés didn’t register the steps he took until he was standing near Martín, wishing for an advantage over him that wasn’t his gun. He didn’t reach for it, too afraid of his earlier thoughts, too ashamed to risk it. His hands closed into fists, rigidly at his sides so they wouldn’t be tempted to touch Martín or punch him.

“If you make another spectacle like this one, if you play the hero _once more_ Martín, I’ll make sure my dear friends Oslo and Helsinki _weld_ the restraints I’ll put on you until nothing less than machines can free you,” Andrés said, somehow making it sound deadly casual, even as his mouth went dry and his throat winched halfway shut. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Martín answered curtly, and when Andrés reached for his arms, determined to shake him until he came back to his senses, Martín jerked away, avoiding his touch.

“You’re not hearing me, if you so much as breathe wrong again, I won’t hesitate to take drastic measures.”

Martín took a step back, then another, face blank. That was something his friend never did, not _that well_ , and not until they had started living in each other’s pocket. Even then, Martín had always been an open book to him, never shying away from his emotions if Andrés was there to collect them reverently. Now Martín’s chest rose and fell and despite the set in his jaw, despite the tilt of his head, Andrés wasn’t sure he could withstand the storm building inside him.

Instead, Martín scowled, the line of his lips dagger-edge thin. “You’ve made yourself abundantly clear.”

The coldness and distance was everything Andrés should have wished for, and everything he wasn’t prepared to hear. It made him wheel on his heel and storm directly toward Martín again, body tense and mouth working before he could assess the terrain and plot a less dangerous course of action. He didn’t get a chance to think before his fingers dung inside Martín’s shoulders, gripping tight enough to hurt, cornering him even as Martín’s body wrenched backwards again.

“Drop the fucking act,” he snarled, heart breaking as he realised that maybe this was it, _this_ was the last straw and Martín was finally done with him. “If you don’t—”

“What the fuck is going on here?” demanded Nairobi, and Andrés flinched back as if Martín was poisonous when she entered the room.

“Are you here to protest my orders too, Nairobi?” he asked. “Because I must say, a change of pace would be refreshing.”

Her eyes narrowed, taking in his aggressive stance, Martín suddenly cowering posture, their accusing isolation and Andrés thought _fuck_.

“Is it true?” Nairobi said. “What I heard about you?”

“Ah, Nairobi, you should know not to believe gossips.”

“Gossips.” She let out an unamused laugh at that. Then, her eyebrows shot meaningfully. “You had Río beaten? You asked Denver to execute a hostage?” Her eyes skittered to Martín and she strode in the room until she stood between him and Martín. Her hands flew around her like vicious wasps, agitated and condemning, and it was obvious from the tone of her voice she wasn’t asking for confirmation but simply stating facts. “ _Mierda_ Berlín! You know what’s happening now? Tokio is screaming your name, looking everywhere for you, and you’re here threatening someone else! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“They got discovered because of Río’s incompetence. He needed to be taught a lesson.”

“You think that helped? He’s a child! _Un puto_ _ninō_! You don’t beat down a kid.”

He didn’t flinch. He never did whenever someone mentioned these kinds of abuse, but he tensed. It was automatic, like the need to correct her. Behind Nairobi, Martín’s breath stuck. His knowing eyes glanced down where one of Andrés’ scars was hidden and Andrés’ heart jittered hard. It wouldn’t stay still, forcing him to focus on Nairobi to calm down. 

“Well then,” Andrés proffered, “he shouldn’t be here if he’s not ready to bear the consequence of his actions.”

“That’s not for you to decide! _El Profesor_ is the boss, not you. What about the hostage?” Nairobi turned and gestured toward Martín. “About _that_ one?”

Away. The conversation needed to get _away_ from Martín, too.

“Why are you here Nairobi?”

“ _Dio mío_ , Berlín—“

“Nairobi.”

It wasn’t just that he was strung out with weariness and hunger after hours without a break. It was _everything_ else. It could be beautiful to see a plan derail, to have to find a way around the problem to make it work, _better ways_ , smarter ways — it was what made the work thrilling; but today, Andrés didn’t have the energy for it, nor the taste. Not with so many people he didn’t fully trust under his command, or the pain licking at his body with every step he took. Something needed to be taken care of quickly and smartly before he snapped, and fixing whatever Nairobi wanted would be a good start.

“Well — while you were terrorizing innocent people, the machines broke.”

He paused, replaying the words in his head before asking again, “What do you mean the machines fucking broke?”

“I mean it’s not working! What can I say, I’m not an engineer, no? It’s broken!”

Andrés watched Martín from the corner of his eyes, and the way he folded both hands behind his head and looked up to the ceiling made Andrés _very_ suspicious. Nothing he was able to call out now, though.

“Find someone who can do something about it then!” Andrés urged. “ _I_ am here to deal with the hostage and the police, and _you_ are here to make money. So make some money! Don’t tell me no one on your team is competent enough to deal with this?”

“Have you seen the size of these monsters? The break could be anywhere and most of them worked with the machines, not _on_ the machines. They don’t know what is going on either!”

“If I may,” Martín started, but Andrés cut him off with a sharp “ _No_.”

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have. Something about Martín made him forget about common sense, and Andrés was failing to handle this whole situation sedately because of it. Here was he instead, getting tangled up in Martín’s presence and what it meant for his friend’s safety, Andrés’ own plan ignored, forgetting about the pair of eyes watching their interactions.

“What’s your problem with that one?” Nairobi asked, surprise colouring her voice. She observed Martín closely for a few seconds before speaking up again. “I can’t remember your name, what was it? Cleverman?”

“Clayderman, miss.” Martín inclined his head respectfully, gaining an appreciative look from Nairobi. “And I was hired because I know my way around these ‘monsters’ as you called them. I can be useful.”

The look of resentment she threw Andrés’ way was sharper than a dagger, missing only by a fraction their goal of cutting him down and making him shrink.

“That’s _why_ he was on my team!”

Andrés ignored her, addressing Martín instead. “ ** _Stop_ **getting in the way!”

“We need him Berlín.”

“We don’t! He’s going back to the tunnels, Nairobi. His kind is too feisty to stay around others, even less in the machine room,” he barked and Nairobi dragged both hands down her face.

Andrés knew he was making irrational choices. He knew if he kept going like this, everyone would question his command. And that was the way it was supposed to be, him being their ruthless, hated, yet respected leader, ready for anything as long as the burden didn’t fall on their shoulders. Any hard choices he made would be taken to the grave with him. Nothing for them to worry about as long as he kept his head straight and forged on.

“I can find the problem, Miss Nairobi,” Martín said. “People stopped working abruptly when you entered the building, everyone was scared and dropped what they were doing to get to safety. Something must be stuck in the mechanism, and depending on how and where the printing stopped I can narrow down the possibilities and find the source of the problem.”

Andrés realised he was tapping his fingers against his legs when he searched for what caught Nairobi’s attention. She looked between them but said nothing that could have betrayed her thought process about the whole situation. Instead, she calmly looked him in the eyes and pointed a finger at Martín.

“He’s coming with me. We _need_ to print the money. I’ll have him in my sight all the time if you’re so certain he’s not to be trusted, but we can’t spare him.”

Nairobi, of course, was right.

“Since you all think you know better than me when it comes to handling the hostages—” His jaw tightened and he crossed the distance between him and Martín, quick enough to grab him and push him harshly toward Nairobi before the end of his sentence. “Be my guest.” Martín stumbled a few steps but found his footing quickly, though he did spare a second to shoot back an angry look. Andrés made a point of not reacting, keeping his eyes trained on Nairobi. “You’re responsible for him. If anything happens to endanger the plan because of him, I’ll have your head.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. You! Come _on_ already, we don’t have all day!”

“I want you both in my office when it’s done,” he said to their retreating backs. Nairobi just waved, focused on her next task already, and she missed the quick look Martín sneaked before they turned the corner of the hallway.

Despite the twirl of trepidation in the pit of his stomach, he let them go. Even _if_ Martín didn’t mean to undermine his authority — he knew that, deep down; he knew that Martín wouldn’t destroy everything Sergio built in an attempt to get his revenge for how Andrés left him— the hostages would soon realise one of them went missing. Keeping them in check was more crucial than ever, and the disappearance of one of them would not be a simple scratch in the tight control he had to keep over them. No, that wound would bleed every bit as freely as if one of them escaped, because _what if_ _she found a way out_ was the thought that would keep their hopes up.

There was no place for hope.

The gunshot resonated in the bathroom. The impact as it buried itself into the cement of the floor covered the sound of the hostages panicking a level below. Nothing more than that was needed so Andrés slammed the door close and took the direction of the main hall, gun still in hand but security on. That was the thing Sergio didn’t understand: they didn’t _have_ to kill someone, they just needed everyone inside to believe they _could_.

Even if he hadn’t been allowed to punish the secretary for somehow stealing a phone, everyone would know the price of such disobedience. After all that woman didn’t look like much, and he sincerely doubted she was courageous enough to follow through with this plan without a little push from someone else.

Arturo Roman’s eyes were the first to find him when Andrés walked down the stairs, just as he had hoped. Behind each powerful man hid a woman, but that little rat seemed to take the cowardly road and hide in his mistress’ skirts instead. With how worried he looked, it was obvious he asked her to do the dirty work while he stayed safe himself. His _pregnant_ mistress. Clearly, the man didn’t care for her as much as he wanted everyone to believe —himself included— and simply found a good way to get rid of the unwanted bastard: or maybe, guilt was finally choking him into caring for the fetus and the carrier.

Either way, there was a fierce surge of pleasure in Andrés’ chest when he raised both his hands to get everyone’s attention, the stolen phone in his left, his gun in his right. “The shot you heard came from an encounter I had with one of the hostages who didn’t follow my rules. So let’s see together, if I have Miss Gaztambide’s phone—” The device lit up in his hand and he took care to walk slowly while he showed the picture saved as background. “— who’s phone is this? Anybody recognize the photo?” Arturo looked at the ground when Andrés stopped in front of him, refusing to take a closer look. “No? I guess the mystery will remain then, since our little thief met an early end.”

“What? What happened?” the director asked shakily. “We heard the gunshot but it can’t be—”

Perfect.

“It’s with a heavy heart I must inform you of the death of Mónica Gaztambide.”

“No!” Arturo’s scream was echoed by other people in the room, and Oslo frowned in his corner of the room before searching Helsinki’s eyes.

It didn’t matter though.

Andrés smiled, blandly at the assembled company. He dropped the phone on the ground and crushed the screen under the heel of his boot, asking “Is there a problem here?”

“You said you would protect us!” cried a woman at his right.

“I did say that.” He slowly pushed the remains of the phone around with his foot, his playfulness clearly unwelcome in the wake of the news he just delivered. “And I also said, ‘ _if you behave_ ’ as I recal—”

Only Helsinki suddenly training his weapon on him alerted Andrés something was off. It was too late when he understood the threat came from behind his back.

“Tell me again Berlín, what was the number one rule?” The mouth of her own gun was gently snuggled against his lower back, precisely against his lumbar curve. One shot, and he wouldn’t walk again. “I can’t _recall_ , but maybe it’s because my mind is too busy processing what Río told me. Do you know what Río told me?”

Helsinki and Oslo asked with a gesture of their hands what they should do but Andrés shook his head slowly. He didn’t require a rescue; it was only Tokio’s hormones acting up yet again.

“I’m sure you will delight me with your little love bird’s words _in my office_.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer or force him one way or another. He started striding right toward the stairs, head high and shoulders straight, without even glancing back. Tokio swore but scattered after him, and inwardly he sighed. Power didn’t have to be in the hand of the person holding the gun. Subtle, sometimes, was more efficient. Not cowering in front of her when she menaced him would unmistakably show everyone _who_ was in charge despite her actions.

“We said no victims,” Tokio muttered angrily behind him. She kept her gun trained against his spine while they walked to the room he chose as his office, but he didn’t protest since they were alone. She didn’t want to fire, though what she wanted exactly, he wasn’t sure. “We said no victims and you got that girl killed and you beat up one of us. I should put that bullet in your skull.”

“She had a phone, what was I supposed to do?”

“Scare her!”

“You didn’t like my scare tactics on Río apparently.” He stumbled when she pushed him violently, and barely missed eating the ground thanks to his good sense of balance. The gun was trained at the back of his skull and his smile stilled. “I’m not sure a bit of extra intimidation would have helped my case since apparently, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Tokio nudged the barrel of the gun against his neck, silently asking him to start walking again. “You touch him again I’ll put a bullet in your skull, you understand me?”

“I won’t need to, Río and I understand each other now. He won’t fuck up again, and we’ll keep having delightful chats about you and women.”

“You don’t talk about me, and you surely don’t talk about women when you just murdered one. What the fuck is wrong with you?” She opened the door with so much force it banged against the wall, the glass encased in it trembling to the point Andrés thought it would chatter. “The professor said we needed all of them alive. He was very clear about that!”

“Who are you to talk? You, who almost killed a cop when we first got in?”

“That’s not the point.” She nodded toward his chair and Andrés sat, eyes carefully tracking the movement of Tokio’s hand. “Sit.”

It became obvious she was wearing her bulletproof jacket under her jumpsuit when he finally sat and was allowed to observe her more in detail. The suddenly full way her breast filled the clothes was everything but natural and he smirked.

“Tokio, that’s kinky, you shouldn’t have changed just for me. But I must say for next time, I would have preferred a corset. Venetian.”

She sat on the corner of his desk and, gun still trained on him, took the red phone in her free hand and handed it to him.

“What a nice idea. Well, let’s call _El Profesor_ and ask him for one.” Her saccharine smile was at odds with how defiant her eyes were. “And while you’re at it, can you please tell him what you’ve done? Executing a hostage.” She tutted, falsely disappointed and clearly enjoying her little mind game. She reminded Andrés of one of his primary school teachers, but hotter and more deadly. “Bad boy. Because you know what? He’s my guardian angel, and if you don’t tell him how you fucked up the plan, I will.”

“Very well.” His easy demeanour garnered her attention and she frowned. He winked as he waited for his brother to answer the phone, more than a little amused by the situation.

“Yes,” Sergio said curtly.

“I’ve broken the first rule of the plan. I’ve killed a hostage.” He heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath and waited a few seconds to bask in the accusing silence. “Well, virtually at least. Everybody believe I did, even our dear precious little Tokio, currently waving her gun at me.” He struggled not to smile as the gleam of superiority in Tokio’s eyes faded away, understanding taking its place. “Ah Tokio, Tokio, Tokio,” he chuckled. “As gullible as the hostages. But I suppose I should thank you for your little show, no one will doubt I did it and they will behave now.”

He stood a little taller in his chair when Tokio left the room in a hurry, probably trying to find someone willing to tell her if what he told Sergio was the truth.

“I don’t want any improvisation Berlín,” Sergio said.

Andrés opened one of the drawers to retrieve the doses of Tramadol he kept hidden from view in there and stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder to prepare the syringe.

“I dislike it as much as you do. There wouldn’t be any improvisation needed if we got Martín out of the Mint.”

“I take it he was involved in this?”

Andrés grimaced, half because of the burn of the injection, half because of the judgement in his brother’s voice. Being angry at Martín for his presence and feeling protective of him was giving him emotional whiplash. “He — helped actually. The woman. Denver was about to execute her but he stopped it.”

“Denver?” Andrés didn’t answer but as often when it came to Sergio, silence was answer enough. “You— You ordered Denver to carry out your execution?”

“I had no other choice.”

“Of course you had. You always do. You were a reckless little shit when we were kids, but a resourceful one and it hasn’t changed. We _don’t_ kill, even less so you can — I don’t know, show you’re in charge. There are other ways, morally acceptable ways! We’re not in a movie! We are in control of our fates here, we get to call the shots and make _good_ choices.”

Only that wasn’t the whole story, wasn’t it? For all his recklessness he has never asked for this fate — he never asked to be sentenced to death with cancer. Never asked to have to be resourceful as a child. It was not another ploy to deflect his father’s attention away from his mum landing him in the hospital. Neither was it an overestimation of his own capacities during a heist, combined with his usual lack of value for his life because he thought —he knew— it was tainted to begin with. It was not something he had signed for that made him act as he did now — like a corpse in waiting.

He was borrowing months of life already by using medicine to alleviate his pain levels. Only for Sergio. Only for this plan that would fulfil his brother’s long awaited revenge and allow him to never miss anything material in life again. And here he was, judging him for being ready to make an ugly choice, to take a life if it meant protecting Sergio’s precious plan.

“It’s not the same.”

“It _is._ And I don’t know what Martín's role in this was but I won’t let you put the team in danger the way you endanger yourself all the time.” Something on the other side of the line fell, the thud immediately accompanied by Sergio’s cursing. It didn’t stop him from asking, “Where is he?”

“Busy. Working.”

Or so he hoped.

“Where Andrés?”

“He’s with Nairobi, fixing the machines. Machines he probably broke himself actually.” The phone slid off his shoulder and he took it in his hand again after closing the drawer and hiding its content from view once again. “We have to get him out before he—”

Sergio cut him off without delay. “Just because you want to preserve Martín doesn’t mean we will make an exception and open the doors for him. You formed him, the plan is safe as long as he doesn’t fuck it up, and then any consequence would be his fault. He knows that.”

“We don’t know why he’s here, we’re better off with him outside!” he protested.

“Of course we know _why_ he’s here. And it’s not the point.”

Nervously, Andrés fished a pen out of the desk supplies, making it swirl between his fingers. “What is the point then?” It clattered on the desk immediately, tremors shaking his hand where he injected the product just minutes before. He threw the offending thing across the room, unable to ignore what exactly Sergio was implying. “ _What_ is it?” Because surely it couldn’t be Martín’s feelings, not after how they left things— something he never told Sergio. “Because from where I’m standing, Martín jeopardized the whole plan by plotting with that secretary to call outside, and stopped me from taking preventive measures to avoid any new mishap!”

The beautiful thing about Andrés’ job was how adaptable one must be to survive. A heist was like drinking a condensed shot of life: it was the highest of high and the lowest of low; it was adrenaline, improvisation and, sometimes, exceedingly beautiful passion; but it was also a series of obstacles, a number of which could destroy everything they worked for, everything they wished for. One little speck of dust could ignite a fire, and if they didn’t crush it early enough the fire would spread and devour the whole plan, leaving only ashes behind.

“Berlín? Enough,” Sergio said, and it made Andrés’ left hand grip the edge of the desk. “Get me Martín and that hostage on the phone, _now_.”

Andrés’ mind went blank — immaculate, noiseless, _hurting_ white — when he realised what it meant. Sergio would not back him up this time. Sergio would punish him, just like he was supposed to do if Andrés crossed a line. But not like Andrés wanted, not like he anticipated. Not by taking Martín away from him — and as such, from the danger. 

Instead, for the first time in _months_ , Sergio intended to side with Martín, and allow him to stay.


	9. Heist Day 2, 4:35pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I’m sorry that it’s yet again been a month since we updated. We still have every intention of finishing this story — but fun fact: I have officially moved to the UK for Business School and it is kicking my ass! I would much rather hide and write Berlermo, but unfortunately that has slipped beyond my grasp.
> 
> The good news is: there will be an additional chapter coming very soon, this time from Sergio’s perspective! There’s some little treats in that one about his relationship with Martín I believe will be very enjoyable (and a flashback from his and Andrés’ past). 
> 
> For now, enjoy! 
> 
> Myra x

Snow crunched under the rounded toe of his new black boots, an improvement from the old ones he held that allowed wet mush to seep through. Once outside the shop, he dumped them in the awaiting bin and started his trek. He pulled the fur lined, dark grey jacket closer around him, trying to convince himself it stood a chance at warming the chill currently freezing him to the bone. Under other circumstances, he would be cursing his friend’s name for his choice of location. But, Andrés’ insistence resulted from his need to be far from the French prison he’d spent the last six months of his life confined to. Without the _lucky_ inconsistencies and the lost trail of missing diamonds, nothing would’ve given way for his release. Instead of complaints, Martín only bowed his head as he walked. Heavy grey clouds blocked out the sun, making the day several degrees colder. Even the beautiful baroque architecture of the medieval Old Town did nothing to improve his mood, the bitter wind nipping at him as it had the last two weeks of his stay. The buzz of the busy streets made him grumble, as the breeze cracked at the dried skin on his face, making the fresh cut round of his upper lip ache. 

Gratefully, his new shoes at least made it easier to walk on the grass to avoid the majority of the crowds. Tents and tables were spread throughout the city in front of the pale pink, grey, and cream buildings. Shops were lined with artisan crafts, carefully carved from wood or masterfully made of leather. Other stalls sent warm aromas of different sweets and local delicacies to tickle the back of his nose. He licked his lower lip, but the temptation wasn’t strong enough to stop. Now, it only frustrated him, hands shoved into his pockets as he twisted and turned past families, couples, and groups of friends enjoying the Kaziukas Festival. Loud music played from the town centre, where elderly couples danced in warmer traditional garb, laughing and cheering with the younger generations. 

He wished he could grow extra arms to shove his fingers into his ears and block out all the noise. 

Perhaps it was a fun punishment for allowing Andrés to be arrested. In fairness, he had tried his best to pull the man along as the job started to descend into chaos. He had even offered to be the one waiting for the police to show up. Instead, Andrés had given him notes on who should be contacted, and offered a cheery, cheeky promise it would not be long until they met again. A crushing weight had seized his chest as he took one last look as he left his friend behind. It had fogged his thoughts, leaving him unable to comprehend the daze — at least until guilt sank in his stomach when Andrés’ name was painted on news outlets across Europe. With a plane ticket in hand, he’d nearly made his way for the sunny beaches of southeastern Vietnam just to get away from the feeling gnawing away at him from the inside out. In the end, regret and shame glued him to the continent, stubbornly waiting for the right time to come along per Andrés’ instructions. 

He couldn’t allow himself the time to stop and wonder exactly why he felt such responsibility for everything that went wrong. He had followed their established protocol, and stuck closely to the plans drawn out over weeks of research. Still, the undeniable, persistent feeling clung to him tighter with each month that dragged by. It was what kept him in Lithuania, despite every inclination there was nothing here worth staying for. 

Prison was the perfect opportunity for a fresh start for both of them, an easy way to amicably split ways. Not that he had been actively searching for a way to say goodbye. Their bond seemed solidified after their moment of sincere honesty almost a year ago in Venezia. But, he never got to hold onto anything for long. Ever observant, he expected the other shoe to drop eventually. Andrés’ temperament ran unruly and wild, burning everything it touched like a wildfire the last few months. He was never ‘controlled’, but this had bordered on destructive. The source was lost to Martín: they’d carefully selected their mark, picked a good team— beautiful, bright-eyed, perky Anne in particular having caught Andrés’ attention for most of the stages — until an unanticipated trigger was pulled and everything went to shit. The fact it had to be his fault entangled itself in his head, refusing to relinquish its hold. In a way, it made sense for everything to be over when they said their rushed goodbyes in the halls of the museum. 

But, it wasn’t worth worrying about now, not when he was already running late to their meeting. Time would give way for Andrés to answer all of his questions, either with tales he hoped Martín would blindly believe, or the earnest honesty he always preferred. 

He made his way to the hill in the east corner of town, adorned with three wooden large crosses at the top. The white paint was just as blinding as the snow, even without the sun poking through the clouds. It was a conspicuous place to meet when the entire city population seemed to fill the streets below. Perhaps it came from having nothing to hide, unlikely as it seemed. The second option rooted back to the idea of rightful vengeance, Martín’s calves already aching as he began his descent. He could see each huff of air as he followed the curve of the trail, keeping alert to each hard patch of ice that posed a threat. 

The higher he climbed the winding path, the larger the imposing symbols grew. Fortune smiled on him, the trek a rather short one all things considered. No more than ten people quietly gathered around the statues, admiring the city and the festival down below. He circled the path from left to right around the crosses, still missing the one familiar face he should have spotted immediately. He sighed as he pulled his hand from his pocket, pushing back the cuff of his jacket to look at the silver watch strapped around his wrist. 

Andrés was _late_. 

Dread weighed down his shoulders as every possible scenario sprinted through his head. There was no reason for him to have been held up in France, or anywhere else along the journey. Everything was meticulously planned, each flight carefully timed and every train ticket spaced. It had all been arranged to weave a more complicated trail when he would inevitably be followed, the police believing he would be stupid enough to immediately make his way back to his associates. In a way, he supposed they were right to make such an assumption. But Martín had carefully lived his life to assume the role of a ghost, always content to follow Andrés’ lead and remain in the shadows when necessary. All the same, his presence was painted into every corner of Andrés’ recent crimes. 

He paced around a small section of the hill, hands shoved back into his pockets to avoid frostbite. There had to be a reason he wasn’t there. He took a deep breath, compelling each of his anxious nerves to relax. He could hear the tick of his wrist watch over the whispers of the others on the hill. Each click of the seconds rolling by without Andrés threatened to make him worry more. 

He paused in his spot, as his hands reached out to grab the frozen railing, skin almost freezing to it, but unable to steady himself any other way. There could be another reason why Andrés, and his stomach twisted with the notion. When it seemed his choice, _his_ decision for them to part ways before Andrés was released, it had been the best scenario he could think of. He resigned himself to the day when their time would expire, and it would not be in his control when it came. It never was. Like every relationship he’d had before, it would be ripped away without a second glance or consideration. Clearly, he had misread the instructions. Sending him to Vilnius should have been clue enough, something witty written between the lines he’d skimmed over. Andrés no doubt would be somewhere in Italy, waiting out the less harsh winter before the spring sun would bring life back to the rolling hills of Tuscany he loved so much. 

It was the light brush from his inner coat pocket, which had somehow come undone without him noticing, that broke him from his thoughts. Almost too excitedly, his feet spun him around, yanking him back from the spiral of self-pity laying claim to his thoughts. His face lit up, warm and hopeful as he looked for the likely culprit. Standing back with arms open wide, the backdrop of the Three Crosses aided to make Andrés look like a much smaller version of Christ the Redeemer. Thoughts of punishment and abandonment vacated his head, excitement mixing with annoyance at the self assured smirk Andrés wore. Prison changed nothing of his features, regal as ever in his wool parka; and the theatrics of arriving late were nothing short of his beloved aesthetic, put into use after far too long apart. 

“I almost had it that time,” Andrés teased, gesturing to the wallet that had been shifted around inside his pocket. 

Martín grumbled in response, the cold wind already nipping at his chest through his sweater. Zipping his jacket back up, he rolled his eyes. “A little out of practice, malparido? Or perhaps still just a _bad_ thief?” Andrés’ jaw tightened, an indication perhaps it was too soon for such a jest. Martín twitched under his beady gaze, almost missing the hint of mischief sparkling in them as he tried to contain his own mirthful laughter. “Hijo de puta! Now you have me feeling _sorry_ for you!” 

Andrés gloved hand laid flat against his chest, jaw slacked now as he wordlessly addressed the wound. The worrying frown folded over Martín’s features grew into a smile, the sides of his face wrinkled and the gap between his teeth probably exposed. He searched Martín’s face, as though he had to make sure the man in front of him were real. Almost instinctively, Martín reached to shake his hand like they did the day they’d met. 

The corner of Andrés’ eyes crinkled, forehead creased as he observed Martín’s outstretched arm. “You’re going to lose your hands and I will lose my mathematician,” he scolded, moving to take both of Martín’s hands in his. He rubbed them between the leather of his gloves, and Martín felt the instant rush of heat from the friction. 

“I don’t _like_ gloves. They’re itchy.” 

“So your alternative is to freeze them off?” 

“Keeping my hands in my pockets had been working until someone decided to be _fashionably late_ ,” he replied, mimicking Andrés’ accent the best he could. 

Andrés grinned, dropping Martín’s hands only when he was satisfied enough with his job. “I had business to attend to, but you’ll know more of that soon enough. Before that we will be purchasing you gloves, and I expect you not to act like a child.” 

He pulled Martín by the arm back to the railing, allowing them to look back over the various landmarks. For the first time since he’d arrived in Vilnius, the sun started to poke through the grey skies. With the warm, yellow light shining down on the city, it looked almost charming. Snow adorned the tops of the buildings, but it looked cleaner and full instead of slushy. Gediminas Tower was speckled with powdered snow, almost looking like a freshly baked ginger cookie, while the white Bell Tower in the heart of the city stood out against the skyline. Somehow, the city had flipped almost instantly, the view nothing compared to those of Italy or Greece, but far more endearing than when he’d arrived. 

“How was it?” The question stumbled from his lips before he could stop the rush of awkward nerves, uncertain of their origin. He turned his head back towards the skyline, until the outline of Andrés’ profile was no longer in his peripheral vision. 

“Prison?” 

“Or the journey. You. Or, really, anything,” he stuttered, positive it was the cold making his teeth chatter. He twisted his torso to lean against the icy railing, pulling his hands inside the sleeves of his jacket. 

“Dull, compared to whatever happened to your upper lip,” Andrés answered lazily, eyes fixated on the bruise puffing it out. Martín had almost forgotten the exposed skin, wounded and chapped from the cold and most likely decorated with specks of dried blood. 

“You should see the other guy,” he laughed in turn, arms crossing over his chest under the jacket. 

“That’s not very promising either. I might have found _you_ in a cell.” 

Martín shook his head, his turn now to offer a smirk. “It was all friendly. A couple of drinks too many led to being rowdy. Jirair, is his name. His friend,” Martín paused, snapping his finger as he tried to bring the other man’s name back to mind, “ _Demir!_ Was probably ready to leave us out in the cold.” 

“I’m glad you made new friends in my absence.” 

“No need to be jealous,” Martín teased, not missing the way Andrés’ lips started to purse together and curl down at the corner. Somehow, they were mesmerizingly soft despite the wind having left his own chapped, and impossibly difficult to look away from. He’d have to make a note to ask for all of Andrés’ secrets another time. “They could prove useful in the future. I’ll have to introduce you.” 

Andrés nodded, gesturing towards the pathway leading back down the hill. “That reminds me. We have a reservation to get ready for. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” 

Martín swallowed his tongue to keep the possessive groan from expressing itself against his will. It should come as no surprise Andrés had been a free man for less than a month and already found a new object to fixate all of his attention on. Normally, it would not have bothered him — some of the women Andrés had brought into his life in recent years had good senses of humor, introduced fascinating topics of conversation, or at least had enough tolerance not to express their displeasure at his presence to his face. It was just all picking up exactly where it had left off, all too quickly for his taste. The jealous little monster pouted at the bottom of his stomach, keeping his feet glued to the ground rather than immediately following after his friend. He had hoped there would be more time for — for _them._

He shot upright, following quickly after Andrés as he left the jarring idea behind him on the hill. 

—

The green tweed suit was tailored specifically to him, warming him as they journeyed to the restaurant. The single breasted jacket drew attention to his waist line, tighter and more form fitting than clothes he had worn in the past few months. The top button of the off white undershirt rested against his sternum, uncomfortable in a way he was no longer used to, and the dark leather shoes squeezed his feet and numbed his toes. He ran his hands down his knees, trying to awkwardly fight any wrinkles from forming in the suit. 

If one lesson remained constant, it was that making a good impression leaned more on the way he carried himself than the clothes he wore. And all the same, Andrés had forced him into the preselected suit, waving his hand and stressing the importance of the evening, without revealing any details while he refused to look at him. Even now, the man sitting next to him nearly pressed into his side door, barely acknowledging his presence as his middle finger scratched at the pad of his thumb. The streets rolled by in the windows, the clear night sky painting the evening with a few scattered stars. He turned his head, leaning forward against the seatbelt to get his attention. 

Andrés continued to watch the buildings passing by, the moonlight reflecting onto him. Martín couldn’t help but notice the way his maroon turtleneck folded just under his carved jawline, the color suited to his darker features. The navy waistcoat under the windowpane matching jacket made him look exquisite in a way Martín had failed to notice before. The unexpected time apart had left him feeling empty, and now strangely committed to memorizing every line, clinging to every moment hooked to the rush of adrenaline. 

That was all it was, or so he hoped. 

“Stop fidgeting with your suit, you’re going to ruin it,” Andrés ordered, still glancing out the window as the car rolled to a stop. 

“I don’t see why _I_ need to make such a good first impression. This is _your_ contact. You refuse to give me anything, so I don’t see why I even need to be here.” 

He expected a dark look on Andrés’ face when the man finally turned his head to fully look at him. His chest rose as he inhaled through his nose, unusually calm for such defiance to his wishes. When his eyes slowly blinked open once more, there was something unmistakably soft reflected in them. He’d never seen the lines of Andrés’ face so tranquil, so _hopeful_ , like this before. All his usual excitement, the refined playfulness, and the hidden, motivating anger were nowhere to be found. His jaw relaxed as his hand rubbed over his chin, finally composed. 

Two fingers found the sensible skin of Martín’s wrist, and the unexpected static shock made his breath hitch. Andrés continued to rub his fingers over the area as he spoke. “This is important to me, Martín. I asked you to accompany me for a reason. Trust me.” 

He could only bring himself to nod at the request, his own eyes locked on thin fingers almost looping around his wrist now. The voiturière made her way from the curved sidewalk, and the touch was gone as soon as the door opened, bringing the biting wind inside the car with it. Andrés stepped out, waiting patiently off to the side while the young woman made her way to open his door as well. Once he made his way to the sidewalk, they fell side by side to walk through the double doors of the restaurant. 

“Fonollosa, table for three,” he said to the smartly dressed hostess. She smiled, checking the list on the wooden podium in front of her. 

“Right this way, sirs.” 

Martín followed obediently as the hostess led them down the steps to the cellar. While the top floor of the restaurant had appeared rather plain, the intricate details of the lower level spoke to Andrés’ preferred expectations. The walls were made of red brick, curving the ceiling, and used to create archways around each of the corners. Luscious vines hung in the corners of the walls, intertwined with glittering little lights. Black furniture was covered with deep red table cloths, folded white napkins awaiting the nightly dinner guests. A silver pitcher of water and glasses awaited the patrons, but only made Martín roll his eyes. He’d promised to trust Andrés, but the setting only confirmed what he already suspected. He didn’t see why he couldn’t have an evening off from meeting the new _girlfriend of the month_ , but his word was his oath. 

They followed the hostess to one of the tables, blocked off by the walls to create a little cave. The privacy of their arrangements made it hard to see the guest already waiting for them at the table, until the hostess stepped out of the way. If the dark brown suit was anything chic, or remotely close to the ‘fashion codes’ Andrés held himself to, it was covered by the hideous shepherd’s check brown overcoat and paisley tie. The man’s hair was relaxed, cut just behind his ears. On anyone else, the full beard and adjoined mustache might have added years to their youth — but the young man’s rounded glasses did nothing in his favor. 

“Hermanito!” Andrés stepped forward, hands extended just in front of his chest. Martín blinked as the fond greeting registered, far from anything he ever expected from the evening. When Andrés had briefly mentioned his brother, he hardly expected the missing deerstalker to be the difference between him and the legendary English detective. “There is someone here I’d like you to meet. Sergio, this is my incredibly talented partner and dear friend, Martín.” 

Martín stepped forward, hand extended ready to meet Sergio’s. The young man studied him as though he were nothing more than the pages of a worn out book, one that would shortly be put away on a shelf for good. It was unnerving to face such scrutiny, but not unexpected either. He’d probably distrust the man responsible for his brother’s recent arrest, if the roles were reversed. 

“Hola, Martín,” Sergio said, and it took every ounce of willpower he had left to avoid laughing at the almost squeaky voice he had been greeted with. He never expected this day to come, nor seen any reason for it. He never thought of Sergio for long on the rare occasions Andrés spoke of him, but he did not expect someone so juvenile they seemed to still be working through puberty. 

The handshake was nothing like the strong one Andrés had spent years working on. If not for the affectionate way his friend embraced the _boy_ , in a way he had never seen with any other man, he wouldn’t have seen any familial resemblance. Sergio took his seat once more, moving closer to the far wall to make room for his brother, leaving Martín the opposite bench to himself. The sounds of the wait staff and other diners echoed in the walls, filling the silence. Andrés, however, looked absolutely pleased. 

“What brings you to Lithuania, Sergio? Besides your brother, I mean?” 

“I‘ve lived here for the last year. Researching at the university.” He maintained his disinterest as he viewed the menu. Martín couldn’t fault him, wondering instead if he had been given the same vague clues about who would be joining them for dinner. Certainly, it made more sense for Andrés’ younger brother to anticipate time spent just the two of them, particularly when Martín had been longing for the same. 

Which made it all the more curious they had been brought together after all this time in the first place. Sergio’s name in conversation mostly revolved around Andrés’ background: how he’d had a mentor, someone to show him the ropes at a young age—a very different upbringing from his own. The second time he was mentioned, it was during a parting goodbye at the airport, with Andrés casually dropping his brother’s name as though it were nothing more than a summer holiday. The final time they had been drunk, high off the adrenaline of a heist, and alone in the villa they rented in Cómo. Andrés probably suspected Martín would be unable to recall the evening, but it took far more than too many bottles of wine to short circuit his memory. “ _He is the only constant in my life,”_ etched its way around Martín’s heart that night, and he’d silently vowed to never leave. He would not be the first to go, to subject Andrés to yet another loss. When the time came to let go of the easy friendship between them, it would be on Andrés to pull the final cord. 

Now he couldn’t understand why he had been entrusted with meeting Andrés’ most treasured, clever little brother.

The man pushed his menu to the front of the table, either having had plenty of time to already view it, or familiarity with the establishment. His hands next folded in his lap, studious. He could see Andrés’ mouth moving, but neither of them seemed to be engaging in the story. To an untrained eye, Sergio might have simply looked zoned out—and it would have come as no surprise, with the rest of his socially awkward clues. But he knew that look of determination, the curve of an upturned eyebrow and eyes unblinking. Sergio was no longer viewing him as someone simply out of place. Something he had missed Andrés say, lost in his own maze of the evening’s events, had probably raised the alarm for concern in his little brother. He didn’t know whether to shrink or sit taller under the weight of Sergio’s observations, but placed his bets on the later. 

“Tell me more about what you’ve been studying? I majored in engineering myself,” Martín said, after carefully waiting for Andrés to finish speaking. If there was any concern he had been ignored, his friend didn’t show it. 

“Mathematics, sciences — everything he can get his hands on. It’s more _practical_ learning for _experience_ than to obtain a degree. Though, he could have several should he choose to pursue it.” 

“I can speak for myself, Andrés,” Sergio huffed, with the unhappy resentment of a young child interrupted by a parent. 

“Of course, hermanito. I only meant to brag about your successes to Martín, as I have to you about him.” 

“I’m sure there’s something you forgot to mention,” Sergio whispered, more to himself than anyone at the table. The words seemingly went unheard by Andrés, and before Martín could push for their hidden meaning, the waitress was back at the head of their table. 

With drinks and dinner ordered, Andrés excused himself from the table. Martín rolled his head to lean back against the wall, fingers lightly tapping the table. Sergio sat, silently waiting for the buffer between them to return. It would have been all too easy to maintain patiently waiting for Andrés’ return, but it was that exact same reason that propelled him to think of a mutual topic of interest. He may not understand why Andrés insisted on him meeting his brother, now of all times, but Martín knew his friend well enough to know it was not insignificant. He owed it to Andrés, at least to try. 

Glancing around, he pointed to some of the specialized details of one of the opposing walls. Gambling on who picked the venue, he asked, “Do you think he picked this for the aesthetic, or the food?” 

“I think he’d argue for an hour that it’s _both,_ but I got food poisoning once because he insisted it was the most grandiose restaurant in the whole of Spain.” 

Martín laughed, waving his hand. “I’m sure he found a way to defend the cooking staff!” 

“ _‘Come now, Sergio. It’s a bad round of the flu.’”_ He mimicked, relaxing enough for a laugh of his own. It wasn’t much in the way of bonding, but it was at least something pleasant. Sergio had finally stopped observing him for the first time since they’d arrived at the table. Martín felt his shoulders release, and chest deflate as the worry carried itself away. 

“I apologize if he didn’t tell you I would be coming this evening. To be honest, it wasn’t you I was expecting to be meeting here.” 

The flash of confusion was back on Sergio’s face, poorly masked when he brought up his glass of wine for a drink. This time, he was privy to the answer to the riddle. “Andrés told me you arrived in Lithuania a few weeks ago. I don’t know why he feels the need to be so secretive about me, should he parade his—”

“I don’t parade around anyone, hermano. Now who's being _dramatic_?” 

Martín grinned, the _Midus_ honey mead he’d been nursing all night adding to the hilarity of the situation. The warm buzz of alcohol left him bold enough to chime in, “Usually? Still you.” 

“I see, my error was leaving you two alone at the table,” he rolled his eyes in mock offense as he took his seat once more. “Remind me to share tales of both your great failures should you continue to slander my good name.” 

Martín looked at Sergio, tilting his head towards Andrés. The momentary comradery briefly returned in the way Sergio dipped his own head forward, repressing a smirk of his own. Instead of the expected frustration at their continued need to take the piss out of him, Andrés’ dark eyes only lit up with mirth — comfortable and happy. This was a celebration of freedom, meant to toast him for his renewed freedom. Of course, that was the missing explanation for why they had all been brought together: Andrés’ unquenchable thirst for the finest things in life having been robbed from him untimely. The man would of course reclaim most of his freedom by making up for lost time, before he quickly found himself entangled in the messy adrenaline of their next target. 

Dinner was brought out before them, lulling the already slow pace of their conversations. Still, between bites Andrés was animated and enthusiastic; then endearing and affectionate. Martín removed his jacket, swept up in the glow Andrés radiated. He occasionally tasseled his brother’s hair fondly, or commanded the table until both men around him had splitting laughs cramping their faces. As Andrés shared another story, in what Martín could only assume was his attempt to build a bridge between them, _one_ nagging truth kept demanding his attention. His fork poked into one of the pierogis, but it was still not enough of a distraction. 

The lie was no longer settling the way he wanted it to. There was nothing to be gained by denying the swelling in his chest or his own bright smile, because Andrés was like this with _him_. The man he had the privilege to know, to respect, to befriend, was not holding up any façades with him when they were alone, evident in parallels between the relationship they shared and the most important one with Sergio. Every interaction, every word, every moment with Andrés was all as sincere as the next. The proof was there in front of him, as he watched the two brothers reconnect. 

Only, there was something else, something foreign and not as unpleasant as it should have been. _Brotherly_ was nowhere close to the right word to describe his own mixed feelings, brewing inside him as Andrés’ eyes shone with the strength of his elated happiness. It—he was a marvelous beauty to behold. Martín quickly shoved another bite of the salty food in his mouth, giving his senses something else to fixate on for a moment. 

_It’s only the mead,_ he told himself, repeating the idea over and over. _It’s only the mead._

It would not be for another six months until he saw Sergio again. This time, it was at least away from the frigid temperatures of winter in the Baltic’s. Liana was the stunning picture of a bride in white, and Andrés’ rich purple suit somehow worked paired against the stunning coastline of southern Portugal. Sergio looked a little older, somehow wiser. He recognized the mark of a man who cracked something phenomenal in the months since their last meeting. His own curiosity peaked, wanting to be privy to the same knowledge, content in the life he had chosen but ever aware of the itch of academia. 

But this time, Sergio’s inquisitive looks made him stop dead in his tracks. It was standoffish, which felt out of place. Their goodbye in Lithuania had been friendly enough. His mind continued to argue the thought that his presence at Andrés’ wedding made far more sense than his at the dinner. Where else would he have been, but at the private event of the season? 

Next, he wondered if it were only the need to shift players between each job that made Sergio wonder why Andrés had chosen to keep _him_ around. His brother would be accustomed to being the only constant in Andrés’ life, to no fault of his own. He hoped it might be enough that his presence at the wedding meant his own place was being secured. Sergio must have realized that, or perhaps something else Martín didn’t need to know, because by the time he made his way over, a rehearsed smile was the only emotion on his face. 

It was almost too suspicious. 

And just for a moment, Martín feared that Andrés’ genius younger brother had figured out his deepest secret. If so, the knowledge would eventually damn him. 

— 

He owed Nairobi more than she would ever know. Her stubborn insistence had, against all odds, won out against Andres’ determination to keep him in the tunnels. His plans were miraculously back on track. His fail safe couldn’t be tied back to him, even though he knew Andrés didn’t need proof. His invisible mark was all over the bluff, but as long as the machines were down nothing could be done. Even Andrés’ hands were tied if their entire purpose for being inside the Mint was shot to hell without him. As he worked with the last of the gears, securing everything exactly as they had been before, he couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk growing across his face. As long as he stayed hidden in the mess of mechanical parts, he could enjoy the second strike of victory he’d achieved since the band’s arrival.  
  
Nairobi was still standing exactly where he had left her, arms folded across her chest. Her teeth bit at the skin of her right thumb, as restless as she was nervous. He couldn’t fault her being so actively engaged in finding a solution to their problem. She had been fortunately cast in the most important role, and anything impending her abilities was a heavy burden on her shoulders. He didn’t miss the way there were only two women picked for this plan, and out of those two, Nairobi was the only one level headed. He remembered Tokio’s face from the news, the rash young woman a ticking time bomb waiting for the worst times to explode  
  
As long as she was his competition, Martín could hold onto the thin hope Sergio would see his worth in the plan, just as he was about to probe Nairobi.  
  
“And?”  
  
“There was a jam, but—” he started with a smile, moving to flip on some of the buttons. The presses roared with life once more, and he swore he saw the young woman jumping with joy. “You’re all set, Miss Nairobi.”  
  
Her hands latched onto his shoulders, shaking him as tears of relief pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Gracias a Dios!” Cupping his face, she excitedly kissed his cheek, yet another expression of her gratitude. Her arms relaxed back to her sides, chest finally expanding to release all the breaths she’d been clinging to.  
  
The brilliant smile and wide-eyes replaced her worry, and he knew it was his opportunity to seize a favor of his own. His arm ran over his brow, drawing attention to the dirt and dust still coloring his face from the tunnels. He nodded his head towards the stairs, interrupting their celebrations. “Do you think someone is available to escort me back to the tunnels? Berlin was insistent on my job. I’d hate to piss that man off.”  
  
Nairobi’s smile fell into a disgruntled scowl at the mention of her ‘superior.’ Martin stayed planted in place, but occasionally glanced to the stairs to add to his intended effect. Finally, she shook her head. “I picked your name first, you know? I was allowed to choose who I wanted for this assignment.”  
  
“I did work here for the last few months. My degree and training make me an ideal candidate for this task. But I have been reassigned,” he shrugged, taking one step back towards the stairs. 

She took a step forward of her own, moving with the grace of a huntress. Her ‘angelic’, friendly smiles and irritated scowl had been replaced with suspicion in the way her right eyebrow raised, and her lips pursed together. And really, he should have known better than to think he could easily play her. “What do you get out of this arrangement?” 

“I’m a _hostage_ , trying to make it through these days alive, Miss Nairobi. I don’t know—”  
  
“Don’t play stupid with me, pendejo. You and Berlín aren’t fooling anyone.” 

“You’ll have to be more specific if you expect me to know what you’re talking about.” 

Her eyes searched him, giving away all the intrigue she held for the twist in their situation. She surveyed him for any cracks, for a place to exploit and clam open the truth from his tongue. He knew better than to give everything away, standing stoic and quiet in return. “You two know each other. Is that it?”

He sighed at her question. The best answers would be rooted in denial, but he’d never see the outside of the tunnels again. He knew he couldn’t stand around and give her ten years worth of their backstory, even though he could see that’s what she was pressing for. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth as he considered his best response. 

“We used to. I didn’t think I’d see him again and the feeling seems to be mutual,” he replied, carefully chosen words hopefully enough to subdue her interest. It was the truth, after all, even if it didn’t come close to scratching the surface of all that lied between them. 

“Mierda,” she grumbled under her breath. “We had a plan. I picked my team according to that plan and he can’t even put away his attachments?” 

“For what it’s worth, I am willing to listen to you. I can stay out of the way, keep my head down.” 

She chuckled at his renewed attempt to sway her decision. “Maybe Berlín’s right. Out of sight, out of mind. I could always come find you again, if I needed you.” She was thinking aloud now, weighing her options for herself as she paced back and forth in a half circle in front of him. “No. You’re better served here, like I already told him. Don’t think I won’t hesitate to put you back in your place, though. I don’t care if you’re an old friend of Berlín’s or not.” 

“Berlín doesn’t care either, so it wouldn’t do me any good to count on him.” 

“Then you’ll stay here, for now.”  
  
“Thank you, Nairobi.” 

But throwing himself back into the work found itself in the back of his mind. His thoughts turned to Mónica, alone and still petrified from the morning’s events. He remembered her hands holding onto his arm, not wanting to leave him alone to face Berlín. He knew she’d still be concerned for his wellbeing, as he was for hers. Claustrophobia might settle on her within the confines they locked her in, potent and dangerous when she was already so anxiety ridden. He had to make sure she was going to be okay in her new surroundings. 

“Could I ask a favor?” He whispered, knowing he’d strike out if anyone else heard him. “My friend. She’s pregnant and alone. I just need to know she’s okay.” 

“I can arrange to have Denver take you to see her,” Nairobi agreed, surprisingly sympathetic to this cause. “It may take some time, though. For now, let’s get back to work.” 

It wasn’t long before he was escorted towards the tunnels with Denver. The two men walked in an amicable silence, his safest option to avoid any provoking questions. He couldn’t imagine Denver had completely unraveled what he had bore witness to the way Nairobi had, if his brief introductions to the man were anything to go by. That was for the best, Martín knew. The sooner Denver pieced the puzzle together, the sooner everyone in the Mint would know. 

He’d been granted the chance to stop by one of the employee washrooms, a fresh jumpsuit free of residue from the mines and the little kit he kept in his locker space. It’d taken a minute to reassure Denver that a little razor wouldn’t hold up against the machine gun across his chest or the handgun that was probably back in his pocket. Cold water felt good on his face, helping to alleviate some of the tension from the bags under his eyes. With the quick shave done, looking back in the mirror was a man a little sadder and aged than _Clayderman_. Purpose still drove him all the same, not leaving time to take in all that had happened so far. 

He’d get through to Andrés, somehow. He’d gotten somewhere when he stopped Mónica’s execution, and now his foot was in the door working with Nairobi. 

Denver walked just a few steps behind him, instructing him on where and when to turn. The vault they had chosen to move Mónica too must have been her decision, as he knew only a few people had access to the entrance. Martín spoke up to interrupt the silence between them as they got closer. “Thank you, for watching out for my friend.” 

“I didn’t want to do anything to her,” came Denver’s quick reply. “It was really stupid, for her to take that phone. I was just trying to convince her to keep the baby and take some money — but she had to pull that stunt!” 

“She was under pressure from her boyfriend.” Martín rolled his eyes, hoping the affair would be dead in the light of recent events. She _deserved_ more than someone who would lay her life on the line like a coward after all. “She’s normally a lot smarter than that.” 

“Arturito?” Denver guessed, and Martín saw him cringe out of the corner of his eye. “How does he get a woman like that?” 

Martín only shrugged, often thinking the same thing himself. There was something to be said of their similarities though, only chasing what was expected of them, settling into things far less than what they wanted. He didn’t know all the specifics to back up his theory, but then never felt he needed to. He could see the same sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was looking that he recognized in himself, before the day in Berlín had vastly improved his life. He just hoped for something longer lasting for her. 

“Why were you coming with Berlín? That cabrón...should have ordered your execution next for leaving your ‘post’.” 

“I guess being responsible for taking a life was harder than he thought, let alone three,” Martín replied quickly, hoping to discourage the conversation. This was exactly what he was worried about, the younger man piecing together their history and quickly running to tell the others. He stayed quiet, but Martín knew the silence couldn’t be trusted. Thankfully, they finally reached the vault before the conversation could continue. 

He twisted the dial open, pulling the heavy metal door back just enough for the two of them to step inside. Mónica was curled up on a makeshift cot, turning from side to side. She sat up quickly when her eyes met his, stress melting away as she smiled. It didn’t last long, though, when the missing familiar detail on his face registered. 

“Clayderman? You’re okay?” She asked as he moved to sit next to her on the floor. “I thought—”

“I told you, no need to worry,” he smiled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. She was still searching his face, looking for more answers than he was willing to give. It might have been one thing to be honest with her, but not with Denver’s ears ready and waiting for the same knowledge. 

“Did you get out of the tunnels?”

“Something went wrong with the machines. I’m working with Nairobi for the time being.” 

“Oh. So, Arturo doesn’t know…” 

Martín shook his head. “They thought it best not to let your little act of defiance spark any more mutiny. For now, I’m the only one who knows you’re okay.” Her hand fell to her stomach, eyes following suit. Martín sighed in response, hating the additional element that tied her to that vile little rat. He quickly turned around to look at Denver, his best commanding look accompanying his tone. “Can we have a minute?” 

Denver looked ready to protest on the spot, most likely feeling the need to make sure none of their arrangement was spoiled by leaving two hostages alone together in a room — especially the one who had already broken the rules and the one who had gone a round with _Berlín_ and lived to tell the tale. They’d unwittingly made quite the names for themselves, and they’d barely been in the Mint together for twenty-four hours. He tried to intensify his own glare, but it was only enough to make the man take a few more steps back. 

“You would have done something you couldn’t live with, if I hadn’t stopped you,” Martín added, laying the guilt on thick. It was a card he was willing to play to get what he wanted. While the man’s fist curled at his side, the anger did not reach his eyes. Shame and regret stared back at Martín, and he watched as Denver turned his back and walked back outside of the vault with nothing more than a, “Two minutes.” 

“What’s with all the sudden changes?” 

She had tenacity, he’d give her that. “Just a little freshening up, Mónica. The tunnels were hard work and didn’t suit my new job.” 

She folded her arms, eyes narrowing at his attempts at lying to her. After the morning she’d had, he couldn’t fault her for feeling like she needed the truth to feel secure about anyone, the ground probably still felt broken beneath her feet. But he couldn’t summarize ten years of loving Andrés, or explaining their tattered bond in two minutes. She wouldn’t understand, and really, no one would. “I’m going to keep you safe in here,” he promised.

“You’re beating around the bush, Clayderman.” 

There was danger in honesty. His friend already painted a target on her back, the bullseye Andrés’ aim if she presented another threat to Sergio’s plan. Revealing his identity placed her one step closer to the truth; the information in the wrong hands would be twisted against his former friend, regardless of their severed connection. Still, her wide, frantic eyes and trembling lips played to his sympathy. 

“My name is Martín Berrote,” he started slowly. “And I’ll tell you more but it’ll take time. I mean it though, Mónica. I have your back in here, no matter the costs.” 

She blinked in confusion, mouth falling slack as the confession pushed her past the limit of things she could handle for one day, he imagined. Her hand pulled away from his reassuring hold, but she said nothing in return. It was for the best, when the door opened again and Denver walked in accompanied by Nairobi. 

“El Profesor wants to speak to both of you.” 

El Profesor. _Sergio_. 

Martín gulped involuntarily, queasy. 

There was always the chance he’d need to speak with the man in charge of the heist. But, with everything else rattling inside his head, it was a possibility he allowed himself to forget. Since then, he’d gotten swept up in the adrenaline of stopping Denver, the danger of another head-on confrontation with Andrés, and being immediately reassigned to Nairobi’s team. Now, as he followed Denver and Nairobi up the stairs leading to the phone room, his head pounded. Dealing with Andrés was one thing. Trying to appeal to Sergio was another matter entirely. 

He had tried his best throughout the years to forge something there. He never expected friendship, at least not the genuine kind. He knew Sergio preferred his solitude, kept limited company, and his head down low in preparation. He acted out the life of a well casted ghost, an award worthy performance that now allowed him to fill the role of leader. Apart from the rare appearances in Andrés’ life, the man didn’t reach for any other attachments. But he mattered, more than anyone else, to Martín’s dearest friend. The importance of his efforts were stressed, silently, from the first day in Lithuania. So, he’d tried. He struck conversation, tried to find comfortable middle ground, included Sergio’s name on _their_ plans when Andrés recognized his faults. There was a sense of comradery there, even if they wouldn’t openly admit it. 

Until he’d made the mistake of confessing his feelings. It was only meant to be a sign of his intentions, of his fidelity to the Bank plans. But, Sergio was a smart man, entirely too clever for his own good. He’d read between the blurred lines, and for all Martín knew, he might have figured it out years ago. He’d been trying to pry him open, to expose all his secrets from the day they met. That disastrous day was the start of everything going wrong, Sergio finally having cracked the code to the walls of his defenses. 

Now, he had to let all of that anger go. He squared his shoulders, standing taller with his head held high. Andrés was currently standing by the wide fish tank with his back turned to them. His hands curled around the side, head lowered. Whatever reprimand he’d received was marked with disappointment from the _what if’s._ Martín had been just on time. Denver had just enough of a conscience not to blindly follow Berlín. And Andrés? Under the heavy heist leader mask, Martín’s suspicions were correct. The man he knew was rightfully dragged down by his new lows. 

“No one saw you bring her with you?” 

“Everyone still thinks of you as their _verdugo,_ if that’s what you’re asking,” Nairobi seethed, her face softening as she gestured for the two of them to take a seat at the long table. Martín did as he was told, trying to drown the image of Andrés’ eyes, the heavy bags and visibly red veins the least of his concerns. 

A single red phone waited for them, currently without anyone waiting on the other end of the line. Martín twitched, tempted to wave at one of the cameras, but knowing better than to push his luck. Instead, he waited and tried to ignore the paranoid thumping threatening to break his rib cage. 

He should’ve expected the jarring ring, but he jumped in his seat all the same. Berlín turned on his heel, an obedient smile on his face as he still let the phone ring. Nairobi’s glare fixated in his direction, while Denver hung back, careful not to put himself in the middle of the unfolding events. Martín waited, seizing control of his nerves as the showdown continued. Finally, Berlín took a step forward, hand curled around the phone before it finished ringing. 

The way Andrés greeted Sergio with an almost taunting, “ _Profesor,_ ” tickled the hair behind Martín’s ear. It was strange to hear anything other than the fond _hermanito_ ’s, or the teasing _Sergio_ ’s. They couldn’t see the man on the other side of the screen, but he could imagine him standing, probably hunched over the computer screens. 

From the corner of his eye, Martín could’ve snickered as Mónica flicked away Andrés’ hand from mockingly petting her hair, as he took a knee next to her chair. He pressed the phone to her ear, leaning close enough to still hear his brother’s every word. “State your name.” 

“Mónica Gaztambide.” 

“And how are you, Miss Gaztambide. Alive? Well? Enjoying your luxury suite?” 

She was breathing unsteady, eyes glancing around the room. Between the faces of all the robbers and him, no longer the man she thought she knew, there was still an almost proud resilience in her eyes. Martín admired her for that, willing to stand tall in a dark pool of sharks who would bite on first command. She sat a little taller when she looked directly at one of the cameras. “Uninjured and isolated.” 

Both were quiet, a sign Sergio was probably apologizing profusely for the bad image their predicament created. His reassuring promises were glorified bullshit. Hostages needed to be controlled and contained to avoid an uprising, too outnumbered if they lost control. They’d play friendly to their faces, but maintain the shadows to provide the right amount of intimidation. Mónica’s ‘death’ would only further serve that purpose, until it threatened their public image. 

“Thank you, Miss Gaztambide. I’m sure Denver will continue to serve as a lovely garçon.” He pulled the phone back as he stood, nodding his head towards the door. “You two will take her back to the vaults. El Profesor and I will be speaking to _Clayderman_ alone.” 

“Why? So you can throw him back in the tunnels when my back is turned? I don’t think so,” Nairobi argued, taking a threatening step forward.

Andrés lowered the phone, rested against the curve of his shoulder. “He fixed the machines, did he not? You have no further service for him.” 

Martín’s eyes flickered to Nairobi, his best display of innocence as he glanced between the two of them ignored. “I can be helpful for your team.” 

“We’d hate you to miss your quality time with Arturo.” Martín leaned back in his chair, zipping his fingers over his lips, pushing Andrés to strike. But with Nairobi only a few inches from him now, his focus returned to trying to wordlessly cut down the woman. Her steel will was a match for his, a perfect time bomb exploited and ready to explode. 

“He will return with me to the printers.” A sharp nail pointed in the center of Andrés’ chest, and Martín had to bite on his tongue to avoid a mocking chuckle from parting his lips. Denver proceeded silently with removing Mónica from the room, both looking eager to escape the rising tension. 

“We will not stray from the plan. Every second you stand here arguing with me, you aren’t monitoring the money printed.” 

“You already strayed from the plan! _Twice!_ ” 

“I made the necessary changes when the occasion asked for them. Next time, place your queries in the suggestion box before I make my decisions.” 

Martín made a note to compliment her on her insistence, ever resilient when everyone else would’ve melted under Andrés’ eerily calm demeanor. She gestured between the phone and the cameras, accusingly. It was the first error she made, and Martín watched Andrés’ thin lips tugging up, smug as he waited. “He’s the mastermind, not you. He let me pick my team. And you ripped it apart because of damned _emotional baggage_?!” 

Andrés twisted, and it was almost enough to make Martín shrink in his chair. Getting on the man’s good graces had included playing his cards close to his chest. No amount of apologizing could make up the ground of surrendering personal information, to making him vulnerable in front of two of his associates. He opened his mouth to speak, cut off before the right words could be formed. “You didn’t even try to hide it, Berlín. You two should have collaborated on your stories better.” 

His head snapped, and Martín’s jaw once again wired shut. She’d stepped off the landmine now, and he could almost hear its ticking. “Did you and Tokio sync while we were training for this heist? First her little run with the police, and now _you_ think you can undermine my decisions? _¡Esto es un patriarcado!_ ” 

Her head only titled back as he screamed in her face, and Martín started to suspect his friend’s argument stood a chance at being lost. Whatever he had his mind set on, Nairobi was ready and willing to oppose. His collected, “I am in _command of you_ ,” would’ve been enough to finish silencing anyone else. 

But as Martín was quickly learning, if Andrés was a shark, Nairobi was a viper. She wiped her face, before tapping the phone, reminding them of the awaiting call. “And _he_ is in _command_ of _you_. We will see what El Profesor has to say after all _you_ have done.” 

She took one of the chairs with her outside the room, and once the door shut, Andrés reluctantly handed him the phone. “Don’t try anything. We both know he won’t listen to you.” 

Martín’s eyes glanced directly into one of the cameras, ignoring the certainty in Andrés’ voice. He shifted the weight of the phone in his hand, trying to give his best confident smile. “Hola, _profesor._ ” 

“What are you doing here, Martín?” 

“No, ‘hello Martín, how was your journey back to Spain? How were the last six months’?” He hummed, leaning his chin in his palm. “I was suddenly out of a job, and how _lucky_ it was the Royal Mint was hiring for an engineer.” 

He didn’t need to see Sergio’s face to know it was contorted with frustration. The younger man was probably trying not to huff at him right now, his patience worn for Martín’s antics. Still, he couldn’t help the first sarcastic jab offered at him. He took a deep breath, willing to let it all go now that his childish tendencies had found an outlet. 

“Do you want to try that again, or are you ready to be released with some of the others?” 

“It was luck the Royal Mint was hiring. Their last engineer had a nice retirement party. But you’re right. I didn’t just come for the paycheck.” 

“You’re a risk to the plan.” 

Martín shrugged. “Didn’t you plan for unknown variables? I know you have Demir waiting for your command on the outside.” 

“He _knew_ what you were planning?” 

Martín wished he could see his face, the shock of what could only be described as betrayal that started to crumble everything he worked for. The laugh tickling his throat dried out as he looked at Andrés. He’d stopped trying to pay the man any of his attention after Nairobi revealed what she knew. His arms were crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall just a few feet from Martín. He refused to look at him, but his eyes weren’t hidden enough. Regret from almost killing Mónica still weighed heavily, but there was something else. Whatever that was, it called out to him like an open flame. If he reached for it, he’d be consumed by the fire, but the risk was never enough to deter him. 

“He did, but don’t fault him for his loyalty.” 

A momentary silence followed, before the Profesor persona found stronger hold over Sergio and asked again, “I’m giving you one more chance. What are you doing here, Martín?” 

He sighed, ready to fold his hand. His eyes never left Andrés as he answered earnestly, “I know what you think of me. But I’m not here to ruin your precious plan. I’ve never asked you for anything, Sergio, but I’m asking you now. Trust me to listen to Nairobi.” 

“Why? And if you try lying to me, or telling me you can’t explain it, you’ll be out the door first thing in the morning.” 

“You need me here, Sergio. I’m an asset to this plan and you know it,” Martín breathed, uneasy. He was looking squarely at him through the camera now, all his sincerity plain and unguarded on his face. “ _He_ needs me here too, even if he won’t admit it. And you’ve _seen_ why. And you know I would do anything for him.” 

“This isn’t a game. Whatever you and my brother—”

“I know. This heist is your life’s work. You want to honor your father, and I can respect and follow your lead. At one time, you trusted me with some of your calculations. Let me prove myself to you,” he pleaded. He could feel the anger seething off Andrés, as uncontrollable as a wild inferno. All of his attention remained focused on Sergio, repeating a quiet, “I can follow Nairobi’s orders.” 

“I owe you for saving Mónica’s life. It would’ve swayed public favor had she been killed. Consider my debt repaid.” He kept his tone neutral, but Martín couldn’t help the warmth swelling in his chest or the smile on his face at the opportunity. “One misstep, one reason not to trust you, and I will hand you over to the police.” 

“I won’t give you a reason to doubt me,” he promised. 

The call went dead, leaving him and Andrés alone once again. Though unlike the tense scene in the bathroom only hours ago, this time Martín had the upper hand. He folded his hands behind his neck, extending his legs on the table. “Even your brother trusts me alone with you. Do you want to explain what your problem is?” 


	10. Heist Day 2, 6:20pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tiptoes back* 
> 
> Hello everyone!!! Happy new year, I hope 2021 brings you more joy than 2020 did! I know 2021 is already full of wonderful surprises for me, since my lateness is due to moving to England for my internship, with the added bonus to be near my wonderful girlfriend! <3 
> 
> Between the move, uni, internship and everything else, it has been hard to find 5 minutes to finish this chapter but being finally settled and in quarantine for a few days allowed me to sit down and write for the first time in weeks so, here we go! TOS10 is here, with an updated rating for the chapters to come for quite different reasons let's say :D 
> 
> Cassy x

“ _He_ needs me here too, even if he won’t admit it. And you’ve _seen_ why. And you know I would do anything for him,” Martín said, and Andrés almost stopped breathing. 

Martín was looking at the camera, focused on Sergio and Sergio alone, which was probably why he missed the way Andrés stared at him for a long, long second— somberly, intently, and with the same destructive depth of affection that always made Andrés feel guilty and elated at the same time. 

It wasn’t new. 

He never had been able to escape the thrill that ran through him whenever he heard the devotion Martín had for him; it was intoxicating. All encompassing. It was what he had missed for years, looking elsewhere for love and affection, for fidelity that would have a taste of sacred. 

Martín was sacred. 

Andrés never meant to know this. Never meant to get this close, to have this much. He certainly didn’t plan on seeing Martín ever again. He shouldn’t be _alive,_ let alone surrounded by Martín’s presence every time he breathed in the Mint. He shouldn’t want to hear again everything Martín was ready to sacrifice for him— not when he knew already thanks to his friend’s stubborn presence. 

Andrés shouldn’t want, but he was long past choice. 

He tried so hard to make Martín understand why it shouldn’t happen, why they couldn’t be. But here he was, in spite of the long, long trail of mistakes Andrés made along the way, talking to Sergio to stay by _his_ side. Martín always had self-destructive tendencies bigger than anyone Andrés had ever met, including himself. He shouldn’t be surprised by his insistence. Shouldn’t be surprised by the grand gesture. 

Nor should he have been surprised by the annoyance in Martín’s voice when the man finally focused on him again. “Even your brother trusts me alone with you. Do you want to explain what your problem is?” 

Martín’s posture was relaxed and arrogant, shoes slapped nonchalantly on the table and hands supporting the back of his head. It reminded Andrés of their time sun-tanning in Capri, but for the lack of sunglasses and colorful cocktails Martín always insisted on ordering to ‘fit in’. The whole thing made Andrés’ anger sparkle anew, dread filling his lungs the next breath he took. 

Sergio betrayed him. 

Andrés shifted back on his heels, dug his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling and with a calm he didn’t feel, said, “I told you what my problem is, yet you’re still here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Ah? Really? So you think because Nairobi fell for your stupid alias— and let me tell you,” Andrés mocked, vaguely gesturing toward Martín’s face with a grimace communicating his disgust, “I’m used to better coming from you, that whole dandy moustache persona was beneath you — you think your place in this heist is secure?”

“No, I _know_ my place is secure because Sergio allowed me to stay. And we both know Sergio’s word is law when it comes to you, isn’t it?”

Andrés didn’t shout like he wanted to. Didn’t talk about the rift with his brother gaping wider since Martín arrived. He simply glanced at the camera before offering Martín a rehearsed and absolutely humorless smile. “Why can’t you accept there is no room for you here? You’re just a nuisance.”

With Sergio on his way to meet with the Inspectora, Andrés didn’t have to play nice anymore. If Martín was looking for a fight, a fight he would get. His brother might be the brain of this operation but Andrés was the master puppeteer between these walls. Martín might push the boundaries of the rules he laid out for everyone, uncaring of anything but his own goal, but Andrés didn’t have to yield.

“You’re so full of shit,” Martín said as fast and as loud as he could without yelling and alerting anyone standing outside the door. “We worked together for years. It has never been a problem. _I_ never have been a problem, we used to do everything—”

Together. They used to do everything together. It started slow — if anyone could call travelling Europe together to plan heists slow — like most of these things did. One moment Andrés had been mostly alone, save for the occasional girlfriends and his brother’s visits, and the next— Martín had been here, there, everywhere. 

“Things change,” he replied instead of talking about the past they had shared. “I told you, you’re not needed here. Or should I be more specific maybe?” A ton of bricks slammed down in his stomach as he spat, “ _I_ don’t need you here.”

Martín made a noise that sounded pained. His feet found the ground again and for a second Andrés thought his friend was about to hit him. “Things changed?” He looked up then, and there was something in his eyes— something dark and chilly and a little bit terrifying. Andrés found himself incapable of straying away from that gaze, something fierce baiting him in— something so electric and challenging that it struck him like thunder ripping under his skin. Martín was devastating up close, vibrant in anger, shaken by grief. “What changed Andrés? Care to enlighten me?” he challenged, stepping closer to him, so close Andrés could detect a hint of the smell he always associated with Martín. It made his heart beat faster and he took a step back, his legs hitting the edge of the table. “What was so important you’re throwing away ten years of friendship, that you’re discarding me like I was nothing more than one of your stupid conquests?!”

Martín would be better off without him with someone who deserved him. Someone who could make him softer, sweeter, _happier_. Someone who wasn’t raw under all the masks. Someone who would not take everything and leave him dry. Someone who could bring warmth in his life, rather than the incisive truthfulness that bordered on cruelty Andrés favored. 

“Oh but you wished, didn’t you? You wished you were in their shoes, allowed to be so much closer than you were to me. But I told you, it’s well past time you moved on.”

It was for the best that Andrés had no choice but leaving Martín behind, with a life that would be pleased to go on without him, though Martín wouldn’t, at first. 

He couldn’t be what Martín wanted, not when it would only end as a chaotic cataclysm of possessive feelings. 

“So because you said so I should fucking jump and obey? You _kissed_ me, you fucking kissed me _bastardo_ , like— like I mattered! Like you wanted me. And you did.” Martín pushed his luck, cornering him and invading his personal space by drawing their faces closer together. “You do,” he accused.

Andrés kept reminding himself that there wasn’t anything there. Nothing hovered in the space between them; no current like lightning drew them together so the air crackled when they touched. There was nothing, and there would continue to be nothing. To daydream otherwise would be masochistic at best and very much dangerous in the current circumstances.

And it was _fine_. It was objectively fine, everything would be over soon. He knew it would, as much as he knew this— this _moment_ between them would come to an end. Martín was, yet again, in the wrong place at the wrong time— more than that, with the wrong person, and it was that thought that convinced Andrés to finally touch Martín to push him away. 

“You don’t know anything,” he argued as the warmth of Martín’s arms registered against his palms. “You buried yourself with your little fantasms about me, you read things where there is nothing instead of seeing the truth about us.”

He knew Martín, intimately. He knew how unwaveringly stubborn he could be, how incredibly smart he was, how ready he was to jeopardize his own happiness. And he couldn’t let Martín get further in, not when Andrés was already so _weak_ for him. Martín couldn’t know or he wouldn’t leave, and he would die trying to protect Andrés when the time to sacrifice himself for this heist finally came.

That was fine. Feelings and emotions could overwhelm logic but controlling his desires was something Andrés was used to doing. He didn’t enjoy denying himself, avoided it as much as he could these days, but this was about more than his selfish needs.  
  
This was about Martín. 

“The truth is, your mouth says the stupidest things but your hands on me speak another tale.” He swallowed when Martín smirked knowingly, his blood pulsing wildly in his throat against Andrés’ traitorous fingers. He moved them as if he had been burnt, but it was too late and Martín bit his lips to stop himself from laughing. Instead he said, “Your eyes don’t lie either. ” 

Martín’s tongue swept along the place where his teeth had sunk into his lower lip to prove his point and blood beat in Andrés too quick and too hot, melting his cold better judgment. He gave in to the terrible yearning he couldn’t shake, gave in to the ferocious electricity humming in between them, to blue eyes that lured him and asked for his lips. 

In the end, the faint damp heat of Martín’s murmured “Shit” when Andrés dragged him into a bruising kiss was all that mattered.

It was not the first time Andrés had kissed anyone, far from it; it was not even the first time he had kissed this particular man. The ghost of Martín’s lips had followed him everywhere since that first fateful day. That kiss had hit him like a tornado. It had been heart-stopping and bone-shaking; like a whirlwind that sent his heart careening off a path he had never planned on taking.

And yet this time—

This time nothing about it felt out of place. It was as life altering to kiss Martín as it had always been, but there was no guilt associated with it, no regret. Instead, this time was simply glorious. 

Even with anger thrumming in his veins and possessive thoughts growing like vines around his heart, Andrés tumbled into the warmth of Martín’s mouth. His guts twisted and his blood heated when Martín’s fingertips slid against his jaw, flirting behind his ears before delving themselves into the soft hairs at the edge of his hairline. For a moment, nothing else than this, than them, existed.

It was pure elation.

It made his spine tighten, his chest burn, his head spin. It was passionately, staggeringly intimate, utterly and excruciatingly real. Martín’s fingers found the base of his skull and the twist in his hair made Andrés’ blood quicken and simmer so violently he couldn’t stifle a moan. He felt the cocky grin against his mouth form and it made him _want_. He traced the arrogant smile with his tongue and the feeling of Martín’s eyelashes fluttering against his skin almost brought Andrés to his knees.

He couldn’t think about anything else than Martín. Martín, with his beautiful eyes shut, his fight leaving him for one of another kind, one more intimate, more sincere; Martín, surrendering to Andrés’ lascivious intention; Martín, making the softest little sounds in the back of his throat every time Andrés’ hands gripped at him, trying to close the space between them, to merge and meld and just— devour him.

Martín, surrendering to the teeth grazing along his lips, to Andrés’ tongue on his, weak for the hunger firing their blood a little hotter with every push at his limbs, for every demand of Andrés’ lips. He didn’t fare any better, feet firmly set in the surrender camp himself. Andrés was weak for it, for him.

And he knew better. He shouldn’t let himself fall any deeper; shouldn’t let himself sigh and breathe Martín’s air back in; shouldn’t press into him and kiss him more fervently and curl his fingers into Martín’s shirtfront and dream. 

Dream of what might have been.

Just as quickly as it started, Andrés stopped everything. He extracted himself from the hold these lips had over him. When Martín opened his eyes again, Andrés’ whole body tensed like he’d been drenched in cold water. His heartbeat skittered at the view of Martín searching his face like there was a treasure buried under the surface, at the dazed quality of his gaze and the shiny reddish hues of his abused lips.

“You’re wrong. I don’t want you here,” Andrés said then and he almost forgot how to inhale at the impact of his words on Martín’s face.

“Are you serious just now?” Martín croaked out after a second or two of trying to make sense of what he just heard. “You gotta be kidding me.”

In a desperate attempt to stop himself from reaching out to soothe the lines of sorrow etching themselves across Martín’s face, Andrés gripped the table he was sitting on. His whole chest went tight and he didn’t know if it was anger or just that everything in him hurt. “Leave Martín. I don’t want you here. And if you must stay, stay out of my way or I’ll chain you someplace to be forgotten like I should have back home.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Martín growled. “Do you think I’m your fucking toy? You couldn’t get your dick into anyone for a few months and now you’re playing with me? Is that what this is about?”

They never fought before. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. He had been grateful for that every day, safe in his knowledge he could seek shelter with Martín whenever he got frustrated with one of his girlfriends, or sometimes even with Sergio. But after the news of his cancer, after the terrible dispute that broke between them when Andrés told him he would not look into a treatment— it had never been exactly the same. Aftershocks of this fight, of the anger that had coursed through them, the incomprehension and the resentment, had burrowed deep inside.

And sometimes it meant Andrés — for it was almost always him, cruelly starting the subject again with a careless comment over his pending death — did stupid things like pick little fights over the most meaningless annoyances. 

Part of him had basked in it. In the knowledge Martín couldn’t accept he would be gone. That he was such an important, cherished part of his friend’s life Andrés could get his blood boiling with the mere suggestion of it. 

In the moments after, he always hated himself. He had known that pain once. He saw someone he loved be lost to their sickness. His mother’s cancer had made her frail and weak, tired and delirious with pain. He knew what awaited him, but more than that, he knew what would be in Martín’s future if he kept insisting on staying until the end.

Sorrow was a cruel mistress when you were powerless.

The memories were poison, and it came flooding black through him, making him angry at Martín for being so invested in him, and the thought itself made him angry at himself for the sheer cruelty of his cutting remarks. They had always managed to stir away from the worse that could have been said, of anything too nasty that would have rottened their friendship. Martín would stare discreetly after they fought, a sad yet tender gaze that weighted so much on Andrés’ shoulder it would crush him and steal his voice, throat rendered tight by emotion.

None of their fights had ever tainted the sanctuary of their bond.

“Don’t dream,” answered Andrés. “I wouldn’t swoop so low as to try anything with you if you didn’t bait me into kissing you.”

Until now.

When Andrés was rational, he remembered: Martín knew him. Martín had seen the worst of him already. Martín was still here, despite all odds, despite Andrés’ wishes, because he—

“Alright,” Martín said. He set his hands on his hips and his unrelenting eyes finally glanced away. “Fuck this shit. I’m done.” 

Andrés’ heart beat— once, twice.

That was what he wanted.

That was—

Still—

It couldn’t be—

Over.

Under the vise grip of fear following Martín’s words, as the breath strangled out of him— Andrés lashed out.

“You’re not done with me,” he raged, powerless to do anything else. Too afraid to touch him again. “Not until I say so.”

“Oh? So now you want me? Make up your damned mind Andrés, you’re giving me whiplash.” 

He used to think that he had mastered the worst of his impulsions, that he could bottle up his feelings and stay focused when it mattered. Yet, here he was gripping at Martín in desperation because the consequences of his own actions made him _fear_. 

Because he could kiss Martín goodbye but he couldn’t, wouldn’t be held responsible for driving him away. Andrés could leave Martín, but he couldn’t be left or his heart wouldn’t survive. 

“I fucking hate your self entitlement,” Martín exploded at his silence, and pain bloomed when the back of his head met the wood of the table he was being pushed against. “You’re selfish and cruel and—”

“You don’t know what it’s like for me,” Andrés blurted. His breath came out shortly, unable to decide what he was feeling or what he wanted with Martín’s face hovering above his own, with Martín’s hands pining him in place as surely as his cerulean eyes did. He just had to get Martín to understand why he was acting like this. He needed absolution for the knife he kept twisting inside Martín’s chest, from Martín himself. “I would take everything,” he added urgently. “I wouldn't allow you to exist for anything other than me. I would burn you. I would consume you, and there would be nothing left because if you were mine— if you were _mine—_ ”

Martín’s mouth smashed against his then, stopping the torrent of his confession with the press of his tongue against and around Andrés’. He kissed with a single-minded intensity Andrés had never felt or dared to imagine, hot and all-consuming. The world narrowed down to this room, to the feel of Martín’s clothes, the table he was crushed against, the trembling fingers against his pulse, their mingled breath, the lack of oxygen—

It was urgent and fucked up in all the right ways. The need to get closer, to worship every patch of skin available, to be the reason behind every shuddering breath, to hear his name like a brand on Martín’s lips; it all crashed and smothered him, slamming him down with breathtaking force. Andrés twisted his hands tighter in the clothes on Martín’s back, desperate need gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

He felt muscles ripple against his palms when Martín moved, heard the sound of something heavy hitting the table, but Andrés didn’t have time to wonder — not when a hand brushed against his torso, lingering possessively before it reached up to hold the back of his neck; not when Martín’s worshipping lips veered from mouth to neck. They grazed his heartbeat and Andrés exhaled sharply, lost on the warm feeling. His hips jerked under Martín’s body when the peppered kisses ceased and Martín settled on a soft hollow spot of his throat. 

A slightly strangled noise escaped him as what started out as a soft kiss turned into a teasing of his skin with teeth. It felt decadent, incandescent, and he was dizzy from the sparks sizzling every one of his nerves. 

Martín never broke his skin though. He didn’t _mark_ him and Andrés wanted, _needed_ — 

“Do it— quit teasing— just—” he said, devastated by his inability to say more. Actions were a language of their own, fortunately. Moving both hands along the plane of Martín’s back to draw him always closer, Andrés pressed a heated kiss against his ear. “ _Martín_ ,” he rasped, and Martín stopped breathing, stopped moving.

Air rushed out of his lungs when Martín’s hovering presence disappeared. It left Andrés’ frantic heart beating with disappointment but anxiety didn’t have time to settle; burning hands found his ankles, their heat sweeping through Andrés’ clothes. He didn’t yelp— wouldn’t _yelp_ — but it was a near thing when, as he tried to sit up, Martín’s heavy hands went from exploring his thighs to sliding under him _to pick him up_. 

The protest died in Andrés’ throat and his eyes slammed shut, dizziness rocking through him along with shame and desire. His arms latched on Martín’s neck so tightly his friend huffed a laugh and _this_ , more than anything else up to this point, made Andrés’ chest constrict painfully. He scrabbled at Martín’s shoulders until his back safely hit the plush chair he had been moved to and Andrés realized he should stop assuming, stop expecting anything from the man in front of him when everything, _everything_ he did always surpassed Andrés’ wildest dreams. 

It made him ache like nothing ever before; made him _hurt_ from the sudden lack of contact between them— and he knew then the distance simply couldn’t be allowed to stay. Leaning up to observe the emotion playing over Martín’s face, Andrés trapped his wrists between his fingers. He turned them over until the vulnerable inside was revealed to his eyes and started kissing right along the path of veins he found here. Martín’s pulse fluttered maddly under his lips, and still, it wasn’t nearly _enough_ , not until Martín dropped his head, panting openly at his display of adoration, and the view sent lighting coursing through Andrés.

“Okay,” Martín said, more than a bit faintly. “Okay, just let me—”

He was pushed back by the same hands he had been worshipping, and suddenly Martín had one knee planted on either side of his hips. All of Martín’s weight shifted until he was sitting on Andrés’ lap, heat radiating off every single place their bodies met. 

Andrés nearly saw stars. 

Instead, as he gazed at Martín’s face, he saw galaxies in his eyes — and how could a few stars ever compare to this man? He was everything Andrés would have hoped for, if he’d dared. Too warm. Too much. Too _wonderful_. Never enough. It felt like falling, and falling, and never hitting the ground, just the magnificent rush of adrenaline and unrelenting joy. His heart was banging and his breath was catching, his body demanding always more— more pressure, more contact, more, more, _more_. 

Martín dropped his head against his forehead and Andrés let himself be drawn into more kisses. He was like a willing moth, wings quivering, waiting for its beautiful death. He needed skin against skin, beating heart against beating heart. 

Trembling fingertips dragged up Martín’s thighs, Martín’s stomach, Martín’s torso; he was both reverent and frantic in his exploration, and the feeling of Martín’s hands on him in return led Andrés to deepen the next kiss he received.

They were both breathless by the time their jumpsuits finally gave up being in the way, zippers down to their stomachs and wandering hands desperately seeking more contact. 

“ _Andrés_ ,” Martín murmured, and the slight curve of his smile against Andrés’ lips felt like the absolution he had been waiting for.

He was hit by the intoxicating smell of Martín’s skin and something inside Andrés soared. It was like starting an engine, like releasing the last of his inhibitions, everything boiling over. He was past caring for the consequences. He did not care how they looked, how _he_ looked, didn’t care about anything else than how to get these stupid clothes out of the fucking way so he could taste more of Martín’s skin, could learn the countours of his body as well as he knew his own. 

Martín’s eyes widened then closed when Andrés’ hands resettled over his ass, the sudden possessiveness of his grip summoning a faint gasp from Martín’s lips. He captured them again, brushed their hips together real light, and then harder, crushing their bodies together, clawing at clothes to get them off, trying to feel _him_ , to _have_ him. 

If the feeling of Martín’s hand dragging down his bare chest didn’t take him one step closer to religion, Andrés knew nothing would. Because, _God,_ kissing that man was both a dazzling heaven and a brazen hell. How did he ever live without this? Without the soft little pleasure-noises and the meeting of their mouths again—and again— and again? 

Martín’s stomach jumped under his fingers when Andrés finally untucked the t-shirt that slowed his exploration. The movement brought them even closer and left him with better access to Martín’s throat. He focused his kisses on the newly exposed line of muscle, one more caress of his tongue taking Martín’s breath away, and Andrés’ hands rushed up to obtain more proof of the power he had over this man by settling against his heart. 

Something spiraled through Andrés’ brain when Martín’s fingertips reached his navel and trailed down devastatingly leisurely. 

“Fuck,” he breathed into the next kiss and a second was soon ripped away from him when Martín very gently slid down to the ground, eyes wickedly alight with desire. “ _Fuck_.” 

Andrés’ body tipped itself forward in thoughtless desperation to get more kisses from the man kneeling between his legs. His blood beat harder with Martín’s hands skimming down his side so very slow and smooth, a stark contrast with the teeth on his lips and tongue in his mouth asking for his rendition. Andrés gripped at Martín’s hair again, trying not to tremble too obviously under the hands exploring his thighs and sneaking inside his jumpsuit to feel him. He closed his eyes when burning fingers softly closed around him, but it didn’t stop the way he moaned or how his legs jerked open begging for more, and Andrés could happily have died here and now because this was _ecstasy_.

He startled when everything stopped, Martín pushing him back almost violently, ripping himself away from him. 

He felt cold. 

He felt _raw_. 

The beating of his own blood in his ears was deafening. He blinked to adjust to the light after having his eyes closed for so long, softly gasping like he couldn’t breathe without touching Martín. It was jarring, to come back to the crude reality that existed outside Martín’s lips. It was— It was being whipped around by a storm after the serenity of that one moment; it was feeling his body burn all over again for that man; it was nothing he ever planned, nothing he wanted here of all places.

Martín was looking at him with something close to horror in his gaze, guilt and anxiety washing away the pleasure that had been there just moments before. 

“I— You weren’t screaming anymore so— I thought— I guess, I—” Nairobi stammered from the door and dread crushed his lungs. She had seen them. She _knew_. “I’m— I’ll wait outside.”

Even with his heart ricocheting around his ribcage and his throat closing with panic, Andrés couldn’t completely shake the haziness muddling his brain. He felt so _cold_ — the room hadn’t been cold a second ago, had it? Everything had been forgotten with rough fingers skimming down his stomach and passionate lips stealing his thoughts. He tried to _howl_ at his body to move but the only thing he managed was a weak exhale.

The door closed with a soft noise and it pushed Martín into action. He turned his back to him, stopping Andrés from seeing the shame that had been dragged up the surface by Nairobi’s interruption, then frantically yanked his clothes back into place. His posture was rigid, his shoulders protectively hunched and it was like the jittering, maddening memory of Martín running away from him — _from them_ — had solidified enough to punch him. 

It lacked the intimacy of the alcove they had found themselves secluded in, the heady, intoxicating smell of strangers’ perfumes and the sweet whisper of a melody they hadn’t cared for any longer— but in essence, it felt the same to Andrés. Twice he had shed his mask and let himself reach for what he wanted _so fucking badly_ he still felt shaken to his bones ; twice Martín had turned his back on him. 

A broken laugh escaped him then. 

No matter what he did, no matter how Andrés fought to avoid this particular place, no matter how hard he tried and tried to push Martín away or let himself be swept by him— he just couldn’t win. 

The uneasiness that took roots in his heart the moment he realized what it meant for him to smile, laugh, breathe so easily around Martín grew tenfold. It didn’t matter whether he tried to shred the feeling into pieces or to embrace it tentatively. Every time, the vengeful self-loathing Andrés could rarely escape found an anxious companion in Martín’s own reactions.

“You think you’re capable of being mine, but who is acting like the other is their dirty little secret Martín?”

Once, Andrés had found this situation ironic.

“You’re… blaming me?!” Martín seethed in white hot anger. “How am I meant to react when a member of your team caught us off guard, conchatumadre!”

Now, it just made him want to destroy everything.

As much as he didn’t want any of this at first, as much as he had refused the reality of what had been happening, he had never been able to escape the storm howling in his heart. Nor could he have quieten the strain of terror running through him whenever Martín’s cleverness made him want to uncover everything his friend ever thought and felt. Distraction never helped, fascination’s hold too strong to resist Martín’s siren call.

He hadn’t signed for it. He wasn’t told the rules of that game they were playing, hadn’t known how to navigate what was blooming between them, so he had tried to valse around it. He had fought back against this exalted danse with everything he had in him.

Until his own lies collapsed at Martín’s feet.

“Don’t fucking lie to yourself, it’s not about that and you know it. It’s not the first time you’ve run either, and it won’t be the last,” he snapped back.

Zipping up the jumpsuit proved to be more complicated than anticipated, the mechanism jamming because of his nervous hands. Mind still reeling from the consequence of what just happened, Andrés didn’t catch the hypocrisies of his own words until Martín shooted in the seat they had kissed just minutes before. It clattered to the floor, preceding Martín’s angry shout.

“You’re lecturing _me_ about running away?!” He paused, and Andrés swallowed with difficulty, too focused on watching Martín’s face to get a reading on what would happen next. “Why the fuck do I even bother with you? I’m fucking stupid and never learn, don’t I?”

Andrés had never felt so unsure before, stuck between what he wanted and what he knew he couldn’t have. But he knew he couldn’t stay here.

“Yes, you are,” he said, finding his footing again. “I put you down too gently all these months ago, but I won’t make the same mistake. I’ll say it one last time: I don’t want you here.” The gun he discarded earlier found its way back in his hand and stupidly, Andrés felt a little bit more in control. That was the reason why he was here. To lead, and to end things. “You gave me no choice and followed me here. Don’t forget the only reason you get to stay is that Sergio insists you’re useful. It better stay that way.”

He didn’t glance behind as he fled the room. The door was closed with more force than necessary and he meant to leave as quickly as possible but Nairobi’s knowing eyes transpierced him. 

“I’m taking him back with me,” she said, as neutral as she could under the current circumstances.

“Do you want my congratulations, Nairobi?” His hand twitched, though Andrés didn’t know the reason why. Maybe they still searched for Martín’s warmth or maybe they itched to rip the calculating sparkle out of Nairobi’s eyes. “El Profesor dictated him to your care, after all. Keep him out of my sight.” 

She pursued her lips as her hands came to rest on her hips and Andrés had enough. He turned to leave, but cold ran up his spine when she snickered. “You seemed like you didn’t want him out of your sight just now, so what is it that you really want Berlín, hm?”

“He can _die_ for all I care!” The words felt like a wad of knives up his throat. “And you’ll be the first to meet your fucking maker if you don’t shut up about what you _think_ you saw in here. And remember Nairobi,” he dragged the deepest breath he could bear before baring his teeth in a vicious smile. “If you start telling stories, you’ll find out I’ve been playing that game for far longer than you have. The result might displease you greatly when your _son_ learns on live tv about his bastard mother, going on a rampage, killing innocent hostages and—” 

“ _Hijo de las mil putas_ ,” she spat and Andrés had to take a few steps back to avoid the collision of Nairobi’s fist with his face. “You don’t get to know about him, he’s not— you leave my kid out of this Berlín!”

“Glad to see we’re on the same page then.”

Nairobi had been struck silent by the ace up his sleeve. She would take care of keeping Martín away and every ounce of terrible yearning rotting behind his ribcage would fade away. 

So of course, she flipped him off. “No one give a shit about who fuck you anyway,” Nairobi said and Andrés didn’t dignify it with so much as a single word because it was better not to react, better to not prod that angry beast awake. 

She scoffed at his silence and entered the room he had just left, leaving him in the corridor alone with his thoughts.

Funny, how quiet it could be. 

There had always been a special sort of static in his brain whenever he thought about Martín, but now, everything felt still. Empty. like a voiceless, soundless, black void. _It was better that way,_ he thought as his feet dragged him away, stretching the distance between Martín and their latest kiss. It was better if Andrés never got the chance to find out where _this_ could have gone, to know how Martín’s fingers felt when they grew bolder; or to know the feel of Martín’s lips against his throat, his collarbones, his stomach, his—

Kissing Martín again had been every thing he had been stupid enough to hope for, to dream of, to caress in his imagination— everything he never should have wanted, what he had resolved to not take for himself.

For a second, Andrés had hoped giving in would be enough to stop the maelstrom of emotion hurling and looking for release. He miscalculated so badly. Instead, the memory played again and again in the darkest corners of his guilty brain, and _god_ — 

He felt so alive. 


End file.
